Transitional States
by Rigil Kent
Summary: Eighteen months after the end of the undercover operation that blew up in their face, life has settled into a routine for Tony and Ziva ... but things are about to change dramatically. Goes AU early season 4, Part 3 of 3. ABANDONED DUE TO DISGUST W/NCIS.
1. Pt 1 Things Fall Apart, 1: Tony

**Transitional States**

**Part 1: Things Fall Apart  
**

**Disclaimer: **The usual.

**Author's Note: ** AU Season 4 (because Tony _never _seems to take the Rota assignment in fics.) Picks up after 4x02, with the following conceits: 1) Tony & Ziva were romantically involved during Gibbs' Mexican hiatus, and 2) Tony refused the Benoit op.

This is also looking to be a fairly long fic, though I'm not going to promise any clear posting schedule since my Muse tends to be ... fickle. Expect some (lots) angst, some (lots) action (if you read my non-NCIS fics, you know of what I speak), and, more importantly, a _competent _Tony DiNozzo instead of the buffoon the actual show seems to love so much this season.

* * *

**Tony**

Thirty-six hours. The director gave him thirty-six hours to make a life-altering decision. It hardly seemed like enough time and, for the first time in his life, Tony DiNozzo found himself completely unsure about what to do.

He was seated at his desk – his old desk; Gibbs hadn't wasted any damned time in reclaiming his territory – and was staring at the monitor before him without actually seeing it. The rest of the team was already hard at work, filling out paperwork with an almost visible sense of delight. Every few seconds, Ziva or McGee would glance over to make sure that Gibbs was actually back and this wasn't a dream or illusion or hallucination brought on by too little oxygen (or too much).

And each time they did, Tony noticed.

Though he knew it was childish of him, DiNozzo couldn't help but to feel insulted at their obvious giddiness at the return of their old boss. Had he really done such a bad job as team leader? Their closure record certainly hadn't changed while Gibbs was gone, they hadn't lost anyone and they'd continued to operate as a well-oiled machine. For the most part.

But everything had changed with the frame job on Ziva.

Tony shot her a quick, discreet glance, frowning at how she seemed utterly unwilling to return his look. Things had gotten weird between them since that entire nightmare a week earlier and DiNozzo still didn't know why. Overnight, without any explanation whatsoever, they had gone from intimate partners who routinely slept together to virtual strangers. Ziva hadn't even bothered telling him why she was avoiding him, why she no longer returned his calls or always had 'plans' when he suggested getting together.

Unconsciously, Tony's eyes slid to where Gibbs sat and his frown deepened as a terrible theory began weeding its way through his subconscious. It wasn't until after Gibbs left that Ziva had instigated the relationship and now that he was back, she dropped DiNozzo like a hot potato. She couldn't … they wouldn't … he didn't …

Tony sighed.

No one seemed to notice or care that he was struggling with something, and DiNozzo once more felt anger stirring within his stomach. He'd busted his ass to keep this team together after Gibbs quit, had turned down a plum undercover assignment for Director Shepard so he could focus on the job (and on his burgeoning secret relationship Ziva, though Jenny hadn't needed to know that), and _this _was how it was going to be? He suddenly felt like the odd man out, the one person who honestly wished Gibbs had stayed retired, and it made him sick. Other than Abby and Ducky (and Jenny, but she didn't really count), he had the most experience with the older man and _should_ have been happy to see him back to something resembling normal.

Once again, his eyes drifted to Ziva and Tony realized he needed to talk to her before making any decisions. She was leaving for Israel tomorrow to debrief her father about that entire Iranian fiasco and was going to be gone for the entire week. All day, he had been trying to corner her alone, to arrange just a few seconds to explain his situation, and she had consistently managed to avoid him. If she really wanted the relationship to be over, all she had to do was say so. He was a big boy. It wasn't like he had been falling for her or anything. Nodding to himself, he clicked on the inter-office messaging service and typed a quick message to her.

_Need to talk to you, _he stated carefully. _Important. Dinner 2nite?_

_Can't_, came her rapid response. _Have plans. Talk after I return?_

_Very Important_, Tony emphasized. _Drive you to airport tomorrow?_

_Gibbs driving me, _Ziva replied and DiNozzo frowned. It would be out of the older man's way to pick her up. Unless …

_R U staying at his place? _Tony typed hesitantly. His finger was poised over the Enter key but he could not make himself press it, so he erased the message and started over. _What plans 2nite? _he queried. The answer caused him to grimace.

_Dinner with Gibbs._

He logged off of the IM without hesitation and fought to keep his expression calm. His head began to pound as horrible images of Gibbs and Ziva raced through his brain. Being intimately familiar with the sounds she made during sex only made his imagination run that much wilder, and he seriously wished for some sort of brain soap that could wipe them away. Even worse, though, was the sickening realization that she might have just used him, that she saw him as little more than an asset to be discarded once he was no longer useful, that the feelings he'd begun having for her were obviously not shared. He wanted to throw up. Or punch someone. Or both. Yes, definitely both.

Almost at once, Tony cursed himself. From day one, Ziva had insisted that what they had wasn't a real relationship and he'd initially been okay with it. Friends with benefits was something he was all too familiar with, but knowing … or rather, _suspecting_ that he was a stand-in for the man she really wanted… how in God's name was he going to be able to work with either of them now?

"You ready?" Gibbs asked abruptly. He was standing in front of Ziva's desk, directing his question to her, and Tony once again felt his stomach twist when she gave the older man a smile. Gathering her belongings, she stood and shot a quick grin in McGee's direction.

"I will see you when I get back, Tim," she said.

"Have a nice flight," McGee replied. His teeth still glinted impossibly bright and Ziva smirked before glancing in Tony's direction. Her smile faltered for a moment and Tony forced a smile on his face, knowing she'd recognized he was upset about something. It wasn't enough to make her stop her exit, though, and DiNozzo felt his heart clench.

"_Shalom_, Tony," she said as she followed Gibbs toward the elevator.

"Goodbye, Ziva," DiNozzo answered. If she heard the finality in his voice, the hint of anger and bitterness, she ignored it. Tossing him a brief confused look, she began speaking softly to Gibbs who barely seemed to be paying any attention.

A moment later, she was gone.

Tony stared at his monitor for twenty more minutes, barely noticing when McGee left for the day. His thoughts raced around in circles before he finally forced himself to his feet. Powering down his computer, he gathered his gear and left the office, fury warring with confusion and despair. Things had been going so well…

Several hours later – he wasn't quite sure how many – he found himself parked in front of his television, unable to actually pay attention to what was on as he tried to figure out what to do. _Don't make assumptions_, he reminded himself. Just because she was having dinner with Gibbs and he was driving her to the airport in the morning didn't mean they were sleeping together. He liked redheads, not brunettes.

But they had secrets together, secrets that would allow her to rouse him from an amnesiac state or would cause him to give up his self-imposed exile to help her. She called him Jethro and he let her. Not often, of course, but enough that it stood out. Hell, Tony had known him for over five years and he _still _couldn't get away with it. What the hell was he supposed to think?

He found himself dialing her home number before he really knew what he was doing. The machine picked up after the third ring, and Tony felt his inner alarms going off. From personal experience, he knew she never let it ring more than twice, even if she was in the shower or dead asleep. The voice message on her cell answered both attempts to reach her there and Tony stared at his phone for a long moment as he contemplated calling Gibbs. What would he say? _I'm trying to reach Ziva to talk to her about our non-relationship relationship and by the way, are you sleeping with her?_

"Screw it," he murmured as he dialed the number. Gibbs picked up on the second ring.

"What?" the older man demanded.

"It's me," Tony said. "I'm trying to get in touch with Ziva. She's not answering her phones."

"She's here," Gibbs said and DiNozzo felt his stomach fall. "And asleep. It's two in the morning, DiNozzo. Is it important?"

"No," Tony answered flatly. "Sorry for waking you." He hung up before Gibbs could reply and threw his phone against the wall with as much force as he could manage. It shattered in an explosion of plastic and electronics.

Seconds later, he was out the door.

Instinct took him back to NCIS and he found himself at his desk with no real memory of how he got there. For nearly two hours, he worked on non-urgent paperwork as he let his brain cycle through all of the information he'd learned. Yes, there were other explanations for why Ziva would be at Gibbs' house tonight, but coupled with her sudden avoidance of all things DiNozzo, it added up to a very uncomfortable truth. Tony blew out a breath – he was suddenly exhausted, drained both physically and mentally. There was no way he would be able to work with either of them now, not with the terrible images racing through his brain.

It was time for a change.

He was waiting for Jenny when she came in that morning. From the disapproving way she glanced at him, Tony knew she realized he hadn't changed clothes since yesterday, but thankfully, she made no comment.

"I've made my decision," he said without preamble. "Rota it is." Director Shepard gave him a nod.

"I'll start the paperwork," she said. "Do you want to tell Gibbs or should I?" DiNozzo shrugged.

"Doesn't matter to me," he answered. Bitterness leaked into his voice though he tried to hide it. "As far as I'm concerned," Tony added, "he can find out the same way _I_ found out _he_ was leaving." Jenny frowned.

"Is something wrong, Tony?" she asked. He shook his head.

"Not anymore," he replied. "How soon can I transfer?"


	2. Things Fall Apart, 2: Ziva

**Author's Note: **I'm going to be jumping around to various POVs of the Team throughout this entire fic and, as with most of my writing, will _only _be using 3rd Person Limited voice.

And for those of you confused about the "pairing" of the story, I refer you to the subject line: Tiva. If you don't like the pairing, I'm afraid you may ultimately be disappointed because I do and this story will reflect that.

But wow! Thanks for the amazing response! Now I'm going to feel bad when my Muse inevitably gets distracted...

* * *

**Ziva**

Something was bothering her partner.

As she rolled out of bed, Ziva David found her thoughts inexplicably drifting to the curious way Tony had been behaving the previous day. No, she amended with a slight mental wince, he had been acting this way ever since she had backed off from their … relationship once she found out Mossad was tailing her. It had seemed like the right thing to do at the time – she had far too many enemies both in and out of the Israeli intelligence agency to put Tony at risk just because he happened to be spectacular in bed, and Officer Bashan's subtle threat on DiNozzo's life still rung in her ears. To someone not trained as Kidon, the questions posed by the Mossad officer would have seemed incongruous, simple desires for information, but to Ziva, they were a blatant warning: if this man is considered a threat or appears to have too great an influence on you, he will be eliminated.

Simply telling Tony the truth did not seem like a good option; Ziva understood him well enough to know that he would balk at putting their arrangement on hold to avoid danger. If anything, threats against his life would be a turn on and that was the last thing she needed while she was trying to find a way to keep him safe in the face of overzealous men who had no business whatsoever poking into her private life.

Yesterday had been different, though, from the time he spent behind closed doors with Jenny, to his unusual reaction to learning that she had plans for dinner with Gibbs last night.

Yawning, she padded softly to the bathroom, noting with some amusement that Abby was passed out on the couch. Last night's dinner had been the Goth's idea, a welcome home meal for their errant and long-missed boss cooked by his two surrogate daughters so they could bring him up to date about goings-on in the office. Once pressured into this by Abby, Gibbs had then suggested they spend the night while they were at it since consumption of alcohol was inevitable. He had two spare bedrooms, after all, and would be able to drive Ziva to the airport so she would not have to get a cab. Initially, Ziva had wanted to invite Tony and McGee and make it a full team gathering, but Abby had promptly vetoed the idea.

"They can have their own dinner party with beer and pizza and football later," the Goth had insisted. "Besides," Abby had confided softly, "I'm not sure if putting Tony and Gibbs in the same room is a good idea right now."

Ziva sighed. The comment had struck home and, not for the first time, she regretted the teasing she and Tim had done when Gibbs reclaimed his place as team leader. From past experience, she knew how difficult it was to be effectively demoted despite having done an exemplar job, and Tony's deep-rooted need for emotional validation likely caused him to interpret this as a sign that he was not good enough even though there was clear evidence that he _was_.

Her shower was short – it ran out of hot water far too soon – and Ziva dressed quickly, turning over the various reasons for Tony's discomfiture. Was he just upset because she had stopped returning his calls? That was for his own protection – she had little doubt Officer Bashan was monitoring her phone calls at the moment and she had no idea what an ambitious man like him would do in a misplaced attempt to curry favor with her father. Was Tony angry because she called Gibbs instead of him when she was framed? Surely he understood her reasoning there: if her life imploded around her, she did not want to take down her friends with her and Gibbs was the only choice. She doubted it was that simple, though; Anthony DiNozzo was far too complicated for it to just be a blow to his ego. Eventually, she knew she would have to explain – perhaps once she cleared things up with her father about her … disapproval over her private life being spied upon by Mossad – but at the moment, it would have to wait. Shaking her head, she packed yesterday's clothes into her suitcase and carried it out to the front room.

"DiNozzo called for you last night," Gibbs announced. He was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping coffee, and Ziva once again did a double-take at the mustache he was wearing. Tony was right – it looked ridiculous on him.

"Did he say what he wanted?" Ziva asked. She helped herself to some coffee before grimacing at the taste. "This is horrible," she declared as she dumped it into the sink. "How can you drink that?"

"Practice," Gibbs replied. "He said it wasn't important and hung up." Frowning, he gave Ziva a look. "Something going on between the two of you I should know about?" Ziva met his eyes.

"No," she said. It was not entirely a lie but rather a deliberate exclusion of pertinent details – there _was _something going on, but Gibbs did not need to know about it – which was the best way _to _lie. "He was a good leader while you were gone," she continued in an effort to change the subject. Gibbs' instincts were clearly still rusty since it worked.

"Of course he was," he said with a snort. "I trained him." His eyes narrowed slightly. "If he was so good, though," Gibbs wondered, "then why did you call me?" He sipped his coffee. "Unless you were trying to keep him from getting hurt." The almost unblinking look he gave her abruptly brought to mind a cobra poised to strike. "You _sure _there's nothing I need to know about?" he asked carefully.

Ziva winced. Clearly his instincts were not _that _rusty.

"How are you two even conscious?" Abby muttered as she staggered into the kitchen, dark rings under her eyes. She grabbed Ziva's empty cup and filled it with the sludge Gibbs called coffee. "The sun isn't even up yet!"

"Six o'clock is hardly early, Abby," Ziva said. She was about to warn the Goth about the coffee but blinked in surprise at how easily Abby downed it without even a hint of distaste. It was to be expected, she realized; Abigail Scuito had been working for Gibbs longer than even Tony.

"It is for me." Abby took another swig of the coffee-flavored motor oil. "If I had my druthers," she said, "this is just about the time I'd be coming home."

"Your druthers?" Ziva queried with a smile. "You have been spending far too much time with Ducky." Abby grinned before turning her attention to Gibbs.

"Were you on the phone last night?" she asked, "'cause I swear I had a dream that you were talking to Tony."

"I was," Gibbs said. "He called for Ziva." The speculative glint in his eye was back.

"My plane leaves in two hours," Ziva pointed out quickly before Abby could comment. The Goth was entirely too observant not to have noticed the change in Ziva's dynamic with Tony. "We should leave soon if we wish to hit the traffic."

"Beat the traffic," Abby corrected automatically. "The one thing we _don't _want is to _hit_ the traffic." Ziva filed the corrected idiom away even if she did not entirely understand the difference; beat and hit were synonyms so why would they mean different things? English was more complicated than it had any reason to be.

A combination of luck and Gibbs' driving allowed them to reach the airport long before her check-in time, and Ziva found herself sitting in the pre-boarding waiting area half an hour later with little to do but wait. She toyed with her phone for several moments, noting the two missed calls from Tony, both of which had been made a little after two in the morning. There were no messages on her voicemail, but her instincts – her gut, Gibbs would call it – was telling her that something was not right.

Tony did not answer his cell, so she instead dialed his desk number. Their conversation would need to be suitably … discreet while he was on an office line, but she knew he was capable of it. A smile crossed her lips as she abruptly recalled several such innuendo-laden conversations over the last few months; it had turned into something of a game, to see which one of them could imply the most outrageous things about their love life in front of Tim without actually coming out and saying it. Tony was excellent at the game with his rapid fire wit.

"Special Agent DiNozzo's desk," McGee answered on the third ring. Ziva frowned.

"I was trying to reach Tony," she said cautiously. "He is not answering his cell."

"Oh, hey, Ziva," Tim said. "I don't know where Tony is. He was here when I got in this morning, but left about thirty minutes ago." Ziva could hear McGee rifling through DiNozzo's desk. "You want me to give him a message?"

"No," she replied without hesitation. Even if McGee suspected that she and Tony were intimate – and from several of his comments in the last month, Ziva seriously doubted the younger agent was completely clueless – there was no way she was going to give Tim any more ammunition in his ongoing power struggle with Tony. "I will call him later." She hung up several moments later and stared at the analog clock on the far wall, all the while wondering at the curious sensations in her stomach.

Why was she so nervous?


	3. Things Fall Apart, 3: Jethro

**A/N:** Time period is currently in between 4.03 "Singled Out" (which will have taken place immediately prior to the first chapter) and 4.04 "Faking It."

I was amused (and surprised) to see that **Ghosthands **covered some of the same material here in _Lateral Move_ independently; in my defense, this particular scene was written long before _LM _was published so we obviously think alike. Scary that. My version is angrier than his, however. I apologize for any OOCness you may perceive...

* * *

**Jethro**

When Jethro stepped out of the elevator, he immediately knew something was wrong.

He wasn't quite sure what exactly it was that caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up, but he could almost taste the … wrongness in the air as he rounded the small cubicle corner and headed for his desk. McGee was already at work, typing away with wild abandon, but DiNozzo …

DiNozzo wasn't at his desk.

Again.

This marked the third day in a row that Tony hadn't been here when Gibbs arrived, and Jethro's rusty instincts were finally beginning to come back to life after months of disuse. On the first day, when Gibbs returned from dropping Ziva off at the airport, DiNozzo had been with Personnel, presumably filling out the paperwork that would transfer Agent Lee back to Legal because he knew how much Jethro loathed doing those sorts of things, but on the second, Tony had simply been gone all day without bothering to offer an explanation or excuse. No one knew where he was and even his usual haunts – Abby's lab, the break room, the morgue – remained empty. His car was still parked in the usual place, and a check of the sign-in roster downstairs revealed that he hadn't left the building, but no one knew where he'd vanished to. At the time, Jethro had suspected that Tony was just having trouble adjusting to no longer being in charge and allowed it to pass without comment, even though it was well within his rights to issue a formal reprimand to his file.

A third time, however, was simply unacceptable.

To his surprise, Gibbs was inexplicably reminded of how DiNozzo had managed to disappear following that incident last year when he and Ziva were locked in the cargo container for an entire day. One minute, everyone was laughing, and the next Tony had made a discreet exit worthy of Houdini. He turned up for work at the usual time the next day, but had been distant and formal, especially when speaking to his ostensible partner, Ziva. It had taken nearly a week before DiNozzo started interacting with his co-workers normally again, a week and a sharply worded rebuke from a strangely intimidating Donald Mallard pointing out that, even if he concealed them behind his clown façade, Tony had feelings and Officer David's exclusion of him from her dinner party, no matter that it was an impromptu gathering taking place while DiNozzo already had plans, clearly stung. Trust was all important on the team, and then, like now, Gibbs felt the bitter sting of remorse; Tony deserved better, even if Jethro wasn't sure how to give it to him.

For the first time this week, he _really _looked at DiNozzo's desk and his skin goose bumped as he noticed the difference. It was clean and orderly, with every one of the personal touches normally associated with Tony gone. None of the usual clutter was present. Even the small storage cabinet behind it seemed in perfect order. Dropping his gear onto his own desk, Gibbs walked the short distance to where DiNozzo normally sat and let his eyes wander over the area, wetting his lips in mild worry at what he saw. He knelt and pulled at the locked drawer where Tony kept the medals Jethro had earned over the years. It slid out without a sound and Gibbs' stomach plunged.

There were no medals inside.

"Where's DiNozzo?" he demanded of McGee. The younger agent was watching with a confused look on his face, clearly recognizing that something was amiss but not skilled enough to see the warning signs.

"Right here," Tony's calm voice answered. He was standing at the partition, dressed immaculately in a suit and jacket that made him look completely professional. A thick folder was held in one hand, but Gibbs only noticed the banked anger and disappointment swimming in DiNozzo's eyes. "I take it you haven't bothered to check your email," the younger man ventured before rolling his eyes in something that looked vaguely like disgust and tossing the folder onto his desk. It landed with a loud thump and Jethro recognized it as a NCIS personnel jacket at once.

And suddenly, he understood.

"My office! Now!" he snapped as he started toward the elevator, anger and confusion warring within his stomach. Despite the clean bill of health he'd been given by the Bethesda doctors before rejoining NCIS, Jethro didn't entirely trust his judgment – though he'd shoot himself in the head before admitting something like that – and he needed Tony more than ever on his team to assure that he didn't make any mistakes. Hell, just the other day, he'd called Ziva 'Kate,' and, for nearly ten minutes, he thought she _was _Kate. It wasn't until he noticed the odd looks the team gave him that he realized the mistake. He could _not _lose the best field agent he'd ever trained, not now.

But DiNozzo's response caused him to freeze in place.

"No."

With a casualness that had to be feigned, Tony crossed his arms and stared coolly at Gibbs, ignoring the wide-eyed look of stunned surprise on McGee's face or the sudden hush that had fallen upon the bullpen as the other field agents present took notice of the unexpected but probably long overdue confrontation. Jethro stared at his senior field agent – although, based on the mounting evidence, could he still call DiNozzo that? – and blinked, suddenly unsure how to field this unexpected situation.

"Effective zero nine hundred yesterday," Tony said calmly, "I no longer work for you, Gibbs." There was no mistaking the sharp, startled intake of breath from McGee, but DiNozzo paid it no mind. "If you want to speak to me, _sir, _then you ask politely," he continued, "but don't treat me like a probie." Tony turned away and began packing up some of the files still in the small storage cabinet behind his desk. Jethro grimaced.

"Special Agent DiNozzo," he bit out, but Tony interrupted him.

"That's Senior Special Agent now," DiNozzo corrected. "I'm moving to Rota at the end of the week to head up my own team." He shook his head. "See what you miss when you don't check your email?"

"My office," Jethro hissed. When Tony looked at him, Gibbs clenched his fists together. "Please," he growled. DiNozzo gave him a smirk that didn't touch his eyes.

"Since you asked so nicely," he said as he gestured for Jethro to precede him. The two legal clerks in the elevator fled the moment they saw Gibbs' dark expression, but it gave him no pleasure.

"What the hell is this about?" he demanded once they were sequestered inside the elevator and the emergency stop button had been mashed.

"It's a promotion," Tony retorted, his own eyes narrowed in anger. "The director was impressed with my performance as team leader while you were off doing whatever it was you were doing," he said darkly, "and offered me my own team." He shrugged and bitterness seemed to roll off him. "I accepted. End of story."

"And you couldn't bother telling me?" Jethro shot him the most intimidating look he could manage and was slightly surprised to see the younger man barely blink. In fact, he returned the glare with equal force and just as much intensity.

"Take it up with the director," DiNozzo snapped. "You got more warning than _I_ did when you left."

"Is that what this is about?" Gibbs asked. "You're angry because I took a vacation?"

"What part of promotion do you not understand?" Tony retorted hotly. His eyes flashed. "And you didn't take a vacation. You. Quit." He glowered. "You left this team in shambles and I had to pick up the damned pieces so you could go sulk for four months!" Fury glittered in DiNozzo's eyes. "I did the best job I could," he growled, "and it still wasn't good enough because I wasn't the sainted Leroy Jethro Gibbs who can walk on water, eat bullets and crap ice cream. Well they got you back now and this team clearly doesn't need or want me anymore." He snorted. "Hell, it took you three days to even realize I was leaving," he pointed out. "I doubt McGee would have even noticed I was gone until a week from now if you hadn't been there to point it out."

"So this is you running away again," Jethro said. Even as the words tumbled from his lips, Gibbs knew there were the wrong thing to say.

"No!" Tony flared up. "_You_ don't get to play that card!" He stepped closer, jabbing his finger into Jethro's chest. "_You _quit. _You _ran away. _I'm_ being promoted." DiNozzo banged his hand on the emergency stop button, releasing the elevator to continue its journey to the next floor. "So deal with it, Gibbs. I'm done being your whipping boy."

The doors to the elevator slid open, revealing Jenny. Her eyebrows shot up at the expressions on his and Tony's faces, but DiNozzo pushed by her without comment and stormed out of sight, his hands balled tightly in fists and his entire body quivering with fury. Shepard stepped into the lift and gave Jethro a look. He glared at her.

"You could have told me he was leaving," Gibbs growled. Jenny frowned, though whether it was at his tone or something else, Jethro couldn't tell. He'd stopped trying to read her – the woman she'd become was a stranger to him.

"I sent you three memos," she retorted. Before he could reply, she added, "Two of which were hard copy. Have you even checked your inbox?"

"That's not the damned point," he replied. She shook her head in obvious disgust.

"You made this mess, Jethro," Jenny said. "You never treated him with respect in front of your team and, as a result, they didn't give it to him when you left." Gibbs swallowed the sudden burn of embarrassment. "He spent more hours in the office than you ever did," she continued, "trying so hard to gain their respect, but all they did was remind him that he wasn't you." Jenny frowned. "Ziva was the worst, I think," she remarked. "When she called you for help and not him, I think he took that as a sign that she only respected him outside the office." The door slid open once more and Jenny stepped forward, pausing to pin Jethro with a flat look. "He needs a change of scenery," she said. "Someplace where you _aren't._"

"How do I make this right?" Gibbs asked quietly. Jenny's hard expression softened.

"I don't think you can," she replied before stepping back and allowing the door to close.


	4. Things Fall Apart, 4: Abby

**A/N:** Time period is currently in between 4.03 "Singled Out" (which will have taken place immediately prior to the first chapter) and 4.04 "Faking It."

I am **_very _**dissatisfied with this chapter but I can't quite point to any one thing as to why - I can't seem to really get a good grasp on Abby's "voice," so this may be the only scene from her POV. I will attempt to return to her down the road, but right now, I'm so discouraged with how this turned out that I may end up sticking to Tony, Ziva, Jethro & Tim (who is next & I'm rather happy with that scene.)

A reminder: this is ultimately a **Tony/Ziva **story, although they're going to have to slog through eighty acres of hell along the way...

* * *

**Abby**

She couldn't remember when she'd been this angry.

A furious scowl on her face, Abby Scuito banged on the door to Tony's apartment a third time, fighting the urge to kick the damned thing while she was at it. She knew he was in there, knew he was trying to ignore her in the hopes that she would give up and leave, but she wasn't going anywhere until he answered her questions.

"Open the door, DiNozzo!" she bellowed, raising her hand to start pounding again. Before she could start knocking again, the door flew open and Tony stood there, dressed in worn exercise clothes. He frowned at her obvious mood.

"Something I can do for you, Abby?" he asked in a deceptively calm voice. Behind him, she could see moving boxes.

"Were you even going to tell me you were leaving?" she demanded, shouldering past him to enter the apartment. It was already mostly packed up and Abby's breath caught at the finality of the situation. Tony was actually leaving.

She wanted to cry.

When Tim had rushed into her lab barely an hour earlier, his face stricken and his eyes wide, she'd momentarily flashed to that awful moment when she learned that Kate had been killed. Even now, over a year later, she sometimes woke to find herself in tears as the nightmares resurfaced and she remembered the rifle round that smashed through the window of her lab. Kate had died so quickly, so abruptly that Abby couldn't help but to wonder who was next.

Tim's stunned 'Tony's moving to Rota' had struck her hard, especially since he was one of her best friends. He wouldn't make a decision like that without telling her, would he? No, this was just one of his elaborate practical jokes, a way to mess with McGee and maybe even get Gibbs' goat for leaving the way he did. Without bothering to speak, Abby had fled her lab and raced to Tony's apartment, eager to see him laugh at how easily he fooled everyone. They would have a beer, eat some pizza and maybe watch a movie. Everyone would laugh.

But Abby wasn't laughing.

"Eventually," DiNozzo said in response to her question. He shut the door and walked over to resume packing up his collection of DVDs. "But you were all so damned busy throwing parties over Gibbs' return that I just didn't see the point."

"I don't want you to leave!" Abby stalked closer to him, wringing her hands as she spoke. A scream was stuck in her throat and she could feel her eyes watering. This couldn't be happening, not now, not after all they'd gone through together.

"We don't always get what we want," Tony said sadly, his eyes momentarily distant. He shook the moment off and began taping up the box. "Do you know," he began conversationally, as if they were discussing the weather, "how sick I got of hearing 'if Gibbs were here' or 'that's not how Gibbs would do this' or 'you're not Gibbs, Tony'?" With the box secured, he shifted it onto a small stack of similar ones. "Not a day passed that you or McGee or Ziva didn't remind me that I _wasn't _him." DiNozzo looked up and gave her a bleak smile that didn't touch his eyes. "Well," he said, "you got him back."

"But we're losing you!"

"If there's one thing I've learned in the last couple of months," Tony said, "it's that I'm replaceable. Gibbs isn't." He shrugged. "But then, I've always known that." It was said so calmly, so flatly, that Abby almost thought she could feel her heart break.

"You're not replaceable, Tony," Abby argued. She hesitated, wondering how she could get the point across. "This team needs you! You held it together after Gibbs left! And who'll look after Timmy when you're gone?"

"Ziva." The answer was harsh and cold. "And she doesn't need _anyone _to look after her," he added, bitterness creeping into his voice. Abby blinked – had something happened between the two? She knew that they had been sleeping together for at least the last month or so despite their surprisingly effective efforts to keep it discreet, but now that she thought about it, Ziva had seemed to have been avoiding Tony since Gibbs came back. Was she afraid that the Boss wouldn't approve? Or did it have something to do with that whole Iranian thing? Had Tony said something to her? For as long as she had known him, he'd suffered from 'foot in mouth' disease and it wouldn't surprise her in the slightest if he'd gone and pissed the Mossad liaison off somehow.

"Have you even talked to her?" Abby asked, switching tactics almost instantly. "Does she know you're leaving?"

"Officer David," Tony said with a tight frown, "has made it perfectly clear that she doesn't give a damn about what I feel, so why should I care what she thinks?" The controlled anger pulsed in his eyes and confirmed to Abby that something had definitely happened between the two of them, something that contributed to his desire to get out of D.C. She doubted that it was entirely responsible for this decision to leave – Tony wouldn't quit the job he loved just because of a woman, no matter who or what she was – but it clearly played a part. "Besides," he all but snarled, "she wanted Gibbs back as badly as you did. Maybe more. Well, he's back. So you can all go back to being happy pod people worshipping at the altar of Gibbs."

"But that doesn't mean you have to go!"

"Yes, it does," DiNozzo replied. "I can't work with a team that doesn't respect me," he said calmly and Abby rocked back on her heels at the comment. Didn't respect him? McGee loved Tony like a slightly insane older brother who he sometimes wanted to kill but always knew he could rely on. And Ziva? Abby had seen the looks the Israeli woman sometimes gave DiNozzo when he wasn't looking. She may have hidden it well, but Abby knew Ziva was just a little crazy about Tony. "And I especially can't work anymore for Gibbs," DiNozzo added harshly. "Not anymore."

"Why … why do you think we don't respect you?" Abby asked hesitantly. She began reviewing her own conduct over the last couple of months, wincing as the tally of her references to Gibbs rapidly mounted. Had she really been so distracted that she hadn't noticed how much she was hurting DiNozzo every time she mentioned their old boss?

"Forget it," Tony said abruptly. He gave her a smile that looked entirely too forced. "I've got my own team now," he reminded her. "Besides, it's about time I made a move. Been in D.C. for too long anyway."

"So you're running," Abby guessed, anger fueling her words. The fury that flared in DiNozzo's eyes caused her to take an instinctive step back. He wouldn't hit her – certainly not – but the anger she saw in his face suddenly reminded her too much of the implacable wrath that had burned in Gibbs' eyes after Kate's murder.

"What part of promotion do you people not understand?" Tony growled. "I think you should go, Abs," he said suddenly. He gave her a less than subtle push toward the door. "Before I say or do something that we're both going to end up regretting."

"Tony!"

"Goodbye, Abby," DiNozzo repeated more forcefully. His face was closed off, and Abby sadly realized that _she_ wouldn't be able to change his mind. Tony was as stubborn as Gibbs when it came right down to it and once his mind was made up about something, talking him out of it was darn near impossible. She blinked back tears as she let him maneuver her out of the apartment.

An hour later, she was at home, sitting in the dark and clutching Bert tightly to her chest while she wondered what to do. Did she even have any right to try and talk Tony out of this? It was definitely a promotion and he was long overdue for his own team no matter how much she hated the idea. She knew it was selfish of her to not want him to leave, but couldn't help it. Gibbs' return was supposed to be a good thing – her family was finally back together – but it was rapidly turning into the opposite. This was even worse than when Stan left.

The realization that he hadn't told Ziva he was leaving ignited a firestorm of hope within her. Ever since Gibbs left for Mexico, the Mossad liaison had turned into the only person Tony listened to, the only one who could talk him out of really bad decisions. That DiNozzo hadn't bothered to tell her about it only convinced Abby that, on some level, Tony knew this was a bad idea and simply didn't want to be talked out of it.

"Ziva can help," she decided as she reached for her phone.


	5. Things Fall Apart, 5: Tim

**A/N:** Time period is currently in between 4.03 "Singled Out" (which will have taken place immediately prior to the first chapter) and 4.04 "Faking It."

I am officially freaked out about the popularity of this story of mine. Sure, I'm accustomed to some people enjoying the directions my whacky brain takes a story, but the response to this fic has been nothing short of overwhelming. So thank you. All of you.

* * *

**Tim**

Hiding in the morgue had seemed like a good idea at the time.

The door slid open as he approached and Tim McGee exhaled softly in relief when he saw that the room was empty. At the moment, this was the only place in the building that seemed safe to do any thinking. The bullpen was tense, with Gibbs glaring at the desk that had once been Tony's and was now Tim's, a mixture of sadness, confusion and fury written upon the senior agent's face. He didn't know what to do and that, more than anything else, freaked McGee out.

Gibbs _always _knew what to do.

To his surprise and extreme discomfort, McGee found himself cast into the role of intermediary between every other member of NCIS and his boss. Even Director Shepard seemed to step carefully around Gibbs as he struggled through whatever powerful emotions had taken hold of him. It was an unusual experience, having senior special agents or the director of a federal agency ask to relay a message to his boss so they wouldn't have to deal with him. Tim couldn't really blame them – having a healthy survival instinct was a prerequisite for reach such high rank – but definitely wished there was someone else present with whom he could share the misery equally.

Abby's lab was no better: she had spent almost the entire week trying to get in contact with Ziva, only to continually get the runaround from the Mossad operators. By Tim's reckoning, Abby had emailed Ziva at least once every hour, and had left so many messages on her home machine and cell's answering service that it would probably take a week to listen to them all. They knew she was in Israel, but according to the switchboard, Officer David was completely sequestered during her debriefing. Since this wasn't an _actual _emergency, passing on messages was seen as low priority.

With both Gibbs and Abby freaking out in their respective ways, Tim had found himself the sole target of their foul moods. His boss growled and barked at him, treating him more like Tony than ever before, and, for the first time, McGee realized just how much DiNozzo had served as a buffer for Gibbs' anger. When the older man was in an especially dark temper, Tony had acted out more than normal, drawing the ire of the boss so the junior agents would be spared. It was something that McGee hadn't even noticed until DiNozzo was no longer part of the team and, with him gone, there was no one left but Tim.

And McGee's head was _still _aching from the last 'wake-up' call.

Even worse, though, was how positively morbid Abby had become in recent days. Her normally bubbly personality seemed to have been swallowed up by an attitude far more appropriate for other, less original Goths, and her eyes consistently flashed with fury each time an attempt to contact Ziva met another roadblock. With each hour that passed, Abby seemed to be directing more and more of the blame for Tony's departure in the direction of the absent Mossad officer, despite clearly recognizing that Ziva _wasn't_ responsible; as far as they could tell, Officer David still didn't even know Tony was leaving!

As to DiNozzo himself, he was so busy preparing for his departure that Tim couldn't remember the last time he saw him for more than five minutes at a time. If Tony wasn't in personnel, he was in a meeting with Director Shepard or Deputy Director Vance, or he was heading out the door to pack. He wasn't entirely abandoning them though – McGee had lost track of the number of emails DiNozzo had shot him outlining certain procedures about the senior field agent job that Tim hadn't even been aware of. The tone of those messages remained impersonal, however, and were little more than the formal relaying of vital information while remaining completely devoid of the snap or charm that Tony's emails usually contained.

And each time McGee received another one, he felt a stab of self-disgust pulse through him as Abby's words about what Tony told her came to mind.

"Ah, Timothy," Doctor Mallard called out as he stepped into the morgue. "How wonderful to see you." Ducky offered no comment about how he found Tim standing in the middle of the room, staring at nothing. "Did Agent Gibbs send you for something?" the doctor asked, a hint of bitterness still tingeing his voice when he spoke of the boss. The tension between the two men had not abated since Gibbs' return and, with DiNozzo leaving, didn't look to be easing any time soon.

"Not really," McGee replied. "I just needed someplace to think, someplace … safe."

"Entirely understandable," Ducky said. He bustled over to his small desk and began looking through the files for something. "Anthony's promotion is affecting all of us."

"You seem pretty okay with it," Tim pointed out. He walked slowly to the doctor's side as he spoke.

"Because I knew this was coming," Doctor Mallard said in response. "It was only a matter of time before he moved on – he is far too good an investigator to spend his entire career working for Gibbs." Ducky smiled. "And once Gibbs returned," he continued, "it was a fait accompli that Anthony would be moving on. Your team does not need _two _senior special agents." Abruptly, the doctor's eyes narrowed. "But that isn't the real reason you are upset, is it?" he asked. McGee sighed.

"No," he said glumly. "Abby told me something that Tony said and it got me to thinking…" Ducky must have sensed how powerfully Tim felt about this because the doctor placed his pen on the desk and turned to give him his full attention. "He told her that he couldn't work with a team that didn't respect him."

"Ah," Ducky said.

That was it. Nothing else. No sign of surprise or shocked disbelief that Tony would say something like that. Just a simple 'ah.'

And quite suddenly, Tim felt two inches tall.

"You think he's right?" he asked. At Ducky's brief hesitation, McGee's shoulders sagged. "You think he's right," he repeated, this time turning it into a statement. "But why? What did I ever do to make him think that?"

"Reminding him that he was not Gibbs at every opportunity as you, Abby and Ziva did certainly did not help," Doctor Mallard said compassionately, reminding Tim of his late grandfather. "Questioning his every decision, something you would not dare to do with Gibbs, likely made it worse." McGee swallowed as he realized how right the doctor was. "But the blame is not entirely yours, Timothy," Ducky said. "Gibbs hardly treated him with much respect before he quit, so what you did was because of learned behavior." He shook his head. "And Anthony certainly isn't blameless either," he added.

"God," Tim muttered morosely. "He must hate me." Ducky chuckled.

"Somehow," he replied with a smile, "I doubt that." His eyes brightened. "You know, this reminds me of a time when I was working with Scotland Yard on a case involving triplets. The lead investigator was a man much like Anthony who was considering a change in vocation but didn't know how to tell his supervisor."

Tim's phone rang, rescuing him from another of Ducky's stories that would ultimately leave him more confused than ever before, and McGee answered it quickly, noticing the glint of amusement in the doctor's eyes at his haste. For a moment, he wondered if Ducky intentionally told such rambling tales to encourage people to leave him alone.

"McGee!" Gibbs' voice echoed from the phone. "Get your ass back up here! Break's over!"

"On my way, Boss," Tim replied automatically, even though he could already hear the dial tone. "Sorry, Ducky," he said as he lowered the phone. "Gotta go." At the doorway, he hesitated for a moment before half-turning back to face the doctor. "Ducky," he said, "when did you find out that Tony was leaving?" The older man gave him a curious look.

"Three days ago," Mallard replied. "Anthony told me shortly after the director offered him the promotion. He wanted my advice, though I suspect his mind was already made up at that point. Why?"

"I just found out yesterday," McGee said glumly. The doctor's eyes widened.

"Oh, my," he said.

"Yeah," Tim agreed.

Once inside the elevator, McGee stared at the control panel as he turned over what Ducky had just told him. Would Tony accept an apology? Sure, Gibbs always said that they were signs of weakness, but DiNozzo _wasn't _Gibbs. It wouldn't hurt to try. And while he was at it, he could offer his belated congratulations on the long overdue promotion and get any advice he could pry out of Tony about how to deal with Gibbs when he was having a bad day. Which, as it was turning out, seemed to be _most _days.

And maybe, just maybe, Tim could tell Tony about his book.


	6. Things Fall Apart, 6: Tony

**A/N:** Time period is currently in between 4.03 "Singled Out" (which will have taken place immediately prior to the first chapter) and 4.04 "Faking It."

And now, believe it or not, we're finally getting into the Story Proper. Think of the previous chapters as set-up... sorta.

* * *

**Tony**

There was no one at the airport to say goodbye.

Tony knew he shouldn't have been particularly surprised, not after the tense week that had passed as he prepared for the move, but it was nonetheless mildly depressing. Following McGee's unexpected appearance at Casa de DiNozzo last night and the impromptu going-away party they'd had with Ducky and Palmer at one of the more high-end drinking establishments Doctor Mallard knew about, Tony had halfway expected (hoped?) someone on his old team to have put in at least a token appearance. _This is your own damned fault_, he told himself as he manhandled the two suitcases out of the taxi and started toward the main entrance of the airport lobby. He had effectively burned most of his bridges in D.C. with the very public way he left the team, and the lack of presence showed him exactly whose side everyone was on.

Naturally, it wasn't his.

To his surprise, though, Director Shepard was waiting just inside, a briefcase in one hand and her cell phone in the other. As he drew closer to her, she smiled and snapped the phone closed.

"Do you say goodbye to all of your agents," Tony asked with a smile that was only slightly forced, "or just the devastatingly handsome ones?" The director chuckled.

"Cute," she remarked as she shook her head. "I come bearing apologies for your team," Shepard continued. "Most of them intended to be here, but they were called out. Triple homicide, two sailors and a marine at a local bar. We think it might be gang related." DiNozzo winced even as he focused on one word: _most_. Did she really mean that or was she just trying to be nice? In the end, he decided it didn't matter.

"Sounds like an all-nighter," he said, hoping that he managed to hide his disappointment that last night's barhopping was going to be the last time he saw any of the people he'd once thought were his friends. _You're a DiNozzo_, his father's words echoed from the past, _and we're _always _alone so get used to it._ "But somehow," Tony stated calmly, "I doubt you came all this way to say goodbye."

"You've got good instincts," Shepard said. She popped open her briefcase and extracted a sealed catalog envelope. "I've got something I'd like you to take a look at on your trip, an operation that might interest you."

_What is it with this woman and her damned secret missions?_ Tony wondered as he studied the offered envelope. NCIS was supposed to be a law enforcement agency, not Central Intelligence. He pinned her with a look.

"If this is about the La Grenouille assignment I already turned down," he started, but the director quickly shook her head.

"It isn't," she said. "The window of opportunity for that particular operation has already closed." She started to frown at his continued reticence over taking the envelope. "I'm only asking you to look at the proposal, Tony," Shepard said. "The position in Rota is yours no matter what you decide."

"Okay," Tony said with a sigh. He accepted the envelope and stuffed it into his carry-on. "I'm not promising anything, ma'am," he added. "I'll look at it, but don't think this means I'm accepting an undercover assignment." She nodded. "Classification?" DiNozzo asked a moment later.

"There isn't anything in there that's top secret," the director replied, "but some of it could be considered sensitive."

"Understood." Unsure what else to say, Tony shifted awkwardly. Shepard recognized her cue and gave him a smile.

"Have a nice flight, Special Agent DiNozzo." With a quick but firm handshake, she headed for the door, leaving Tony alone in the center of a crowd. He grimaced slightly and hefted his bags.

The girl manning the check-in counter looked far too much like Ziva for his mental well-being, and DiNozzo blew out a frustrated breath when his thoughts invariably turned to the Israeli woman. Would she even care that he was gone once she got back? Or would she heave a sigh of relief that a potential problem had resolved itself without her having to resort to violence? Tony knew that Abby had been desperately trying to contact Ziva all week – that, along with her working on a case for another team, had been the ostensible reason she hadn't been able to join McGee last night – and idly wondered at what the Mossad liaison could be doing that would require complete isolation. Not that he really minded, of course. It kept things simpler that she wasn't recruited into Abby's attempts to keep him in D.C., no matter how half-hearted they would probably be. At least this way, he didn't have to look at the woman he'd been falling for and think of her with Gibbs, a mental image that never failed to turn his stomach. It was the coward's way out, but he'd long ago figured out that, when it came to _actual_ relationships with the opposite sex, he was as chicken-shit as they came. _Thanks, Dad, _he reflected bitterly, once again lamenting over the male role model he'd grown up to unconsciously emulate. Not for the first time, he wondered if he would have turned out differently with a father figure who was actually worthy of the name.

"I see your ticket has been upgraded to first class," the check-in girl remarked as she stared at her computer monitor. Tony snorted in surprise.

"Really?" he asked before shaking his head. "She's certainly pulling out all the stops," he mused under his breath. When the girl – Maria, according to her nametag – gave him a curious look, Tony flashed his most charming grin. "It's my boss," he said. "She's trying to get me to take a new job that she doesn't want to tell me anything about." Maria smiled a plastic smile and nodded, though DiNozzo doubted she was even paying much attention to him. The falseness of the expression struck a chord within him – how much of what he'd had with Ziva had been equally faked on her part?

He decided he didn't want to know.

"You're also cleared to carry a firearm aboard," she said with mild surprise. "You'll need to check-in with the lead flight attendant before boarding."

"Thank you," Tony said in response as he passed across his two suitcases and received a boarding pass in exchange. Hefting his carry-on, he turned away.

"Have a pleasant flight, sir!" Maria called out with false cheer that made him want to wince.

His Sig caused several minor crises at the various checkpoints, but his NCIS badge and the special dispensation attached to his ticket carried him through them and to the terminal for his plane. There were only a few seats open as the passengers waited for the announcement to begin boarding and he chose the one next to a vaguely familiar-looking dark-haired man about Ziva's age who appeared half asleep. If the wrinkles in the man's clothes and the dark circles under his eyes were any indication, he'd been traveling for some time.

Nearly an hour later, the flight attendants began letting passengers board. The first class section turned out to be far more luxurious than Tony had expected and he settled himself in the plush seat happily. Ironically, the dark-haired man he'd sat next to in the passenger terminal had the seat next to him, though they both had plenty of arm space. DiNozzo shifted awkwardly in place for several long seconds, unable to get entirely comfortable, and his neighbor gave him a curious glance.

"Not accustomed to first class," Tony admitted with a wry grin. "Most of the time I fly, it's in the back of C-2s or KC-130s."

"Military?" the man asked. DiNozzo half-shrugged, his stomach dropping at the familiarity of the accent. _What are the chances? _he wondered.

"Sort of," he replied. "NCIS," Tony added, not translating the acronym as something of a test.

"Ah," his neighbor said with a nod. "That explains it." He offered his hand. "Michael Rivkin." DiNozzo accepted.

"Tony DiNozzo," he replied. "Mossad?" he asked softly, and the man's eyes widened slightly.

"You did that with very few clues," Rivkin said cautiously before blinking and shaking his head, a slight smile appearing on his lips. "I _thought _you looked familiar," the man said. "You must be the Tony that Ziva works with."

"_Worked_ with," Tony corrected tightly. "Past tense. I'm not with the D.C. team anymore." He forced a smile on his face. "What brings you to America, Officer Rivkin?" he asked in an attempt to change the subject. Right now, the _last _thing he wanted to talk about to a Mossad operative was Ziva David.

"Michael, please," the man said. "Simple courier duties, actually," he added with an amused smirk that Tony returned. Unspoken was that Rivkin could not admit to anything else even if he wanted to. "Nothing interesting, I am afraid." His smile faded as he yawned. "Unfortunately," Michael continued, "my superiors in Tel Aviv do not seem to understand the need for sleep and have ordered me back now that my task is complete." He yawned again and DiNozzo fought the urge to follow suit. "I have already been in the air for over thirty hours."

"Jet lag from hell," Tony said with a sympathetic wince.

"And I have never been able to sleep particularly well on planes," Officer Rivkin added.

"Even first class?" DiNozzo asked.

"_Especially _first class," his neighbor replied with a grin. His good humor was spoiled by another jaw-cracking yawn. "It may not matter this time," Michael said. "I think I will sleep like a … corpse?"

"Sleep like the dead," Tony corrected automatically, barely hiding a wince at the familiarity of this sort of conversation. "As long as you don't snore like Ziva does," he added without thinking, "I think we'll get along fine." The comment prompted a sidelong glance of curiosity and DiNozzo cursed himself for a runaway tongue. Rivkin said nothing though, and instead leaned his head back on the seat and closed his eyes. A few moments later, his breathing evened out, though Tony doubted it was more than a light nap; he could only think a few times when Ziva had been truly, deeply asleep for longer than a few minutes (all of which followed particularly good sex) and he suspected the man sitting beside him had similar reflexes.

Forty minutes later, they were airborne and Tony could feel a chapter of his life closing.

_Rota, here I come._


	7. Things Fall Apart, 7: Ziva

**A/N:** Time period is currently in between 4.03 "Singled Out" (which will have taken place immediately prior to the first chapter) and 4.04 "Faking It."

* * *

**Ziva**

It was well after three in the morning when she finally entered her apartment.

Tired, sore and cranky, Ziva tossed her duffel bag onto the couch and closed the door with a touch more force than was entirely necessary. Her entire body ached as she secured the locks and began stripping off her clothes. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the flashing light on her answering machine indicating new messages, but she did not bother with them right now. All she wanted was a hot bath, a bottle full of aspirin and her bed for the next week or so. An unnecessary eleven hour layover in England had been bad enough, but an emergency landing in Greenland for six more to deal with engine troubles only made it worse. And then, there was the high pitched whine from the engine she was sitting near, and the almost ear-splitting cries of the angry infant directly behind her, and the fact they were playing_ Revenge of the Sith _as the in-flight movie – she had disliked it the first time when Tony dragged her to see it, and being forced to watch it again only annoyed her that much more. All in all, it was one of the worst flights she had ever been forced to endure, and that was counting the time she had been medevaced to a Tel Aviv hospital with three 7.62mm rounds in her stomach.

It was good to finally be home.

She dozed off at least twice while soaking in the tub and when she finally forced herself out of it, the steaming water had cooled to barely lukewarm. Dressing quickly in her preferred pajamas – silk bottoms and an OSU jersey liberated from Tony weeks earlier – she crawled into her bed, pulled the covers over her and was asleep in seconds.

When she finally dragged herself out of bed, the day was already mostly over. Her stomach growled, reminding her that she had not eaten since the Nuuk Airport, and she padded into the kitchen after a quick bathroom visit. Once again, the flashing light on the answering machine beckoned but she decided against playing the messages. Her brain still felt like it was in a fog so anything important would have to wait. Acting without thinking or having all the facts never ended well.

Ziva rooted through her distressingly bare refrigerator for a moment before giving up. It looked as though she would have to order a pizza. Instantly, her thoughts jumped to Tony and she wondered if he would mind her stopping by. They still needed to talk and she wanted to tell him about Officer Bashan's overstepping of his boundaries. Smirking abruptly, she suddenly recalled the look on her father's face when she explained the extent of her … displeasure over being spied upon.

Grabbing her phone, she depressed speed dial number one – Tony's cell – and waited for the call to connect.

"We're sorry," an automated voice informed her, "this number is no longer in service." Ziva frowned as she hung up – had he forgotten to pay his bill again? – and dialed his home number. The same message answered and suddenly, Ziva felt the hunger that had been plaguing her curdle within her stomach.

She was out of the apartment within a minute, having pulled on a pair of pants and shoes but not bothering to change her shirt. Since NCIS was between her apartment and his, she decided to swing by the Navy Yard first since chances were good that he was probably still working. Glancing at her cell as she climbed into her Mini, she grimaced and tossed it aside; the charge was gone so it was good as little more than a paper weight.

McGee's car – the new Porsche he'd unexpectedly started driving lately – was in Tony's parking space when she pulled into the lot, and Ziva frowned again. Tim knew better than to occupy DiNozzo's spot, regardless of his reasons. The inside of her mouth was unexpectedly dry and she was opening the door of her Mini even before she'd completely stopped. The guards manning the metal detector recognized her and waved her through, and she discovered to her slight surprise that her heart was pounding a little faster than it had any right to.

And it seemed to stop when she stepped out of the elevator and saw Tim sitting at Tony's desk.

McGee was the only one in the bullpen and, from his expression, was probably going to be pulling an all-nighter. He was so distracted by the paperwork he was laboriously examining that he did not even notice her approach.

"Why are you at Tony's desk?" Ziva asked without preamble, the comment causing McGee to jump in surprise before looking up.

"Ziva!" Tim exclaimed. "You scared the crap out of me!"

"Why are you at Tony's desk?" Ziva repeated, ignoring the way McGee's eyes widened at the shirt she was wearing. It was already too late to conceal the fact that her relationship with Tony had long since passed that of mere friends, and she doubted Tim did not already know that. He swallowed.

"You haven't heard?" he asked hesitantly. When her expression darkened, he looked down. "Tony's gone. He left to take over the Rota team three days ago."

Ziva's breath caught. She wet her lips as she tried to form a coherent thought, but nothing came out. McGee clearly noticed her difficulty if the sheepish expression on his face was any indication.

"We tried getting in touch with you," he said, "but the operators at Mossad told us you were unavailable."

"I was," Ziva whispered. "Three days ago?" she repeated. "That means he knew before I left…"

And quite suddenly, Tony's desperate attempts to get her to talk to him the day before she flew back to Israel made sense. It was important, he had insisted. He just needed a couple of minutes of her time. Please, Ziva. And in her efforts to keep him from becoming a potential target of her enemies inside and out of Mossad, she had ignored him.

She suddenly felt sick.

"I was sure he told you," McGee said, compassion in his eyes. Anger stirring in her stomach, Ziva turned away and marched to her desk, unsure of exactly _who _she was mad at. No, she corrected herself darkly, she knew _exactly _who she was the source of her ire and it was most certainly not Tony. Pulling out her chair, she froze at the small packing box hidden underneath her desk. Pushing Tim's sudden interest out of her mind, she dropped into her seat and opened the box. A single piece of folded paper was resting atop what looked to be the clothes and essentials she had left at Tony's apartment for overnight stays. Swallowing the lump in her throat, Ziva unfolded the paper and recognized DiNozzo's distinctive scrawl.

_You left these at my apartment._

That was it. No salutation, no signature, just six words that seethed with anger and bitterness. She refolded the paper and returned it to the box before booting up her computer. Her eyes burned and she desperately wanted to start punching something – why the hell did he tell Gibbs it was not important when he called their boss' house?

_Because you had already pushed him away, _the cynical part of her psyche that insisted she was too damaged to ever have a real, long-lasting relationship snarled. _You did not even bother to tell_ _him _why_ you pushed him away. _

Scanning through her work emails, Ziva was discouraged to realize that Tony had not sent her a goodbye note. She searched her desk for something – _anything _– that might be from him, before giving up. Sensing McGee's eyes on her, she gave him a glance.

"He didn't leave any messages that I know of," Tim said, obviously recognizing what she was looking for. "I got the feeling he didn't want to talk to any of us," he added glumly. "He told Abby that he couldn't work with a team that didn't respect him," McGee said a moment later, his eyes haunted.

Ziva opened her mouth to argue the point, but memory of Tony's face when Gibbs swept back into the office without even a single word of praise jumped into her mind's eye. On the heels of that, she was suddenly reminded of every instance she or Tim or Abby compared his leadership of the team to that of Gibbs and almost always implied he was not as good. She had meant for it to be the kind of teasing they always did – usually, except when she was angry at him – but had it really affected him that much? Ziva sighed, suddenly realizing how badly she had erred. The evidence had always been there: how long had it taken him to start treating her normally after he discovered she had not invited him to the impromptu dinner along with the rest of the team last year? Six days of him interacting with her only when absolutely necessary would have likely been longer if it had not been for Ducky recognizing the problem and encouraging her – bluntly – to point out that Tony's week-long bragging about his own plans had been the reason she had excluded him. Even afterward, it had taken nearly two weeks before their interactions returned something resembling normal.

"Maybe he was right," Ziva murmured as she stood up from her desk. Her computer was already powering down and she grabbed the box. "He spoke with Abby?" she asked. Tim nodded. "Then I will talk to her."

"You chased him away," the forensic scientist said as Ziva entered the lab. The anger in Abby's voice and demeanor caused Ziva to draw up short. She stared in surprise at the Goth's appearance: there were no pig tails tonight and she was wearing very little make-up. Her eyes glittered with fury and loss.

"I did not know he was going to leave," Ziva retorted. She exhaled bitterly and allowed her shoulders to slump. "But I do feel responsible."

"He thinks you're sleeping with Gibbs," Abby said sharply. Ziva blinked.

"What?" The notion was so ridiculous that it caused her to take a step back in surprise. Gibbs was like … her _father_. Or rather, he was the paternal figure she'd always wanted, instead of the callous man she had grown up addressing as Papa. He was certainly not a potential lover!

"You didn't hook up with him until Gibbs left," Abby continued darkly, "and then pushed him away once Gibbs came back. What else was he supposed to think?"

"But…" Ziva closed her eyes and muttered a soft curse in Hebrew. Abby was right; it was the only thing that could explain the expression that had been on Tony's face when she left the building with Gibbs the night before her return to Israel, a look of pain and anger, sadness and resignation. She wondered how someone trained to read people and situations as well as she could have misread this mess as badly as she had. "I need to talk to him, to explain…"

"I've tried," Abby muttered. Her anger seemed to have dwindled away to nothing as she recognized that Ziva was as confused and hurt as she was. "He hasn't returned any of my phone calls or emails since he got to Rota."

"I will speak with Director Shepard then," Ziva said. Yes, Jenny would help her resolve this misunderstanding. She still owed Ziva for Cairo.

_But what then? _the cynic inside her wondered. _You have already driven him away. He is already gone. Just like all the other _good _men in your life._

Ziva turned toward the door, trying to ignore the mocking voice.

She was only partially successful.


	8. Things Fall Apart, 8: Jethro

**A/N:** Time period is currently the very late in the evening after 4.04 "Faking It" took place.

**Fair warning: **after having read the latest spoiler over at Ausiello today, I must say that if they kill off Ziva, I'm completely done with NCIS. This entire year has already been a _monumental _disappointment to me and if they get rid of my favorite character, not only am I walking but I'm also going to have _seriously _question what the hell the clowns in charge have against strong female characters. And without Ziva in the equation, I'm really not sure whether I'd be able to finish this. :-(

So yeah, I'm hoping they're just trying to stir up a hornet's nest. As it is, I'm doing everything I can to keep my expectations low for these next four episodes. And given what's happened thus far this year, that is surprisingly easy.

* * *

**Jethro**

It had been a long day.

Crouched before his boat, Jethro focused on the sandpaper in his hand and the comforting smell of sawdust. It was his preferred form of meditation, a way to turn off his brain and let the problems of the day sort themselves out. When he was facing a particularly difficult case, he often retreated here to lose himself in the rhythmic, soothing feel of woodwork.

And today had been especially frustrating.

"I figured you'd be down here." The familiar voice of Tobias Fornell drifted from the open doorway of the basement, and Gibbs gave him a quick, sidelong glance before returning to the boat in front of him. He had expected Fornell to show up at some point once Jethro called in the favor owed to him, but it appeared his old friend was a little ahead of schedule. "When did you start listening to salsa?" Tobias asked as he hit the stop button on the small tape recorder. Gibbs smiled slightly.

"Just a gift," he replied.

"From Franks," Fornell guessed. He drifted closer to where Jethro crouched. "I did as you asked, Jethro," he said. "He made it back to Mexico without any problems or … stopovers."

"Good," Gibbs murmured. He contemplated saying 'thanks,' but decided it would be out of character for him and kept his mouth shut.

"Do I want to know _why _you asked me to make sure he got there okay?" Tobias asked a moment later.

"Doubt it," Jethro replied. He winced at the memory of McGee's expression over how easily Franks had gotten the drop on him to go after Puchenko. If Tim had been a puppy, one would have thought he'd been kicked and his slower than normal reflexes had caused Gibbs to order him to the nearest emergency room to get his head checked out. Right now, the last thing they needed to find out was that Franks had hit him too hard and caused a concussion. The diagnosis had revealed no problems beyond stress and exhaustion, which wasn't really a surprise. Since Tony's abrupt departure over two weeks ago, McGee had been running himself ragged trying to fill DiNozzo's shoes, discovering along the way that they were much larger than he expected. Gibbs hadn't cut him any slack, either; the best way to learn, Jethro felt, was to be dropped into the middle of the ocean and learn to sink or swim.

"So," Fornell remarked as he began rooting around for a cup, "I understand Agent DiNozzo doesn't work for you anymore." He used the native Italian pronunciation of Tony's name – 'DiNutSo' – like he always did rather than the Americanized version Tony actually preferred, and it almost caused Gibbs to smile.

Almost.

"Got his own team in Rota," Jethro revealed flatly. Not for the first time, he tried to be happy for the younger man, tried to focus on the pride he felt at DiNozzo being more than ready for leading his own team. Tony had come a long way since Gibbs first met him, and a large part of Jethro _was _proud that the immature frat boy had finally grown up. Despite his best efforts, however, guilt snarled and twisted in his stomach at how badly he'd failed Tony and his team.

None of them were the same with DiNozzo's departure and Jethro didn't know how to fix it. While he was a good agent and was beginning to live up to the potential Gibbs had originally seen in him, McGee was nowhere near the investigator that Tony was and things that Gibbs took for granted still had to be explained to Tim, which caused McGee to second guess himself even more than he already was. The addition of another rookie in the form of Michelle Lee – albeit one that DiNozzo had _started _to train while Gibbs was in Mexico – only increased Jethro's workload as it left him with not one probie, but two to watch out for. Three, if he included Ziva who, while quite skilled in most areas, still had a lot to learn about conducting a criminal investigation that didn't end with the suspect dead on the floor with a bullet between their eyes or their throat slit.

Thoughts of the Mossad liaison instantly caused Jethro to frown as he once more wondered about the exact nature of her relationship with Tony. She was absolutely furious with Jenny for reasons both women refused to reveal, only furthering his suspicion that Ziva and DiNozzo had been sleeping together while he was away and Jenny knew it. Ever since her return from Israel, Officer David had been desperately trying to get in touch with Tony or authorize a trip to Rota and, each time she received no response, her anger and frustration grew. It wasn't like that all the time – when they were in the field, she was fine, as if she had flipped a switch in her head that turned off all of her unfocused angst and allowed her to function normally – but in the office, she seethed with poorly hidden anger, annoyance, worry, and guilt.

Tony's departure had other unexpected consequences as well, none of which Jethro could quite explain. Abby was barely talking to him and when she did, it was in clipped, harsh sentences. His attempts to bribe her back to normalcy – additional CafPows, for example, or extra compliments for a job well done – seemed to completely fail, and he had begun to wince every time she called him '_Agent_ Gibbs.' Ducky was no better, though the doctor's anger seemed more rooted in Jethro's abrupt departure from NCIS almost five months ago, with the Tony situation only exacerbating the unresolved issues hanging between them.

And Gibbs knew all of this was his own fault.

He should have expected this – Brent Langer, Stan Burley and Viv Blackadder had all quit because they were unable to deal with him or his impossible demands for perfection – but he'd grown so accustomed to having Tony there to absorb his bad moods or make a ridiculous joke clearly intended to cheer his 'Boss' up that it was hard to glance to the desk where DiNozzo sat and see Tim McGee instead. The bleak silence that enveloped the bullpen during work hours seemed unnatural and strangely unsettling. Jethro had lost track of the number of times someone – usually Ziva – had said something and he tensed, waiting for DiNozzo to respond with an inappropriate but still amusing comment. Who knew that a fratboy who pretended to be immature, lazy and incompetent to keep everyone's spirits up was so damned essential to the dynamics of his team?

The long, extended silence that answered his comment about Tony's current job eventually forced him to look up and Gibbs' eyes narrowed at the expression on Tobias' face. He knew something, something that Jethro didn't, and wasn't sure if he should mention it or hold his tongue. "Out with it, Fornell," Gibbs ordered. Tobias chuckled.

"I see the mustache hasn't changed your wonderful way with people," Fornell said.

"Or my aim," Jethro retorted. He held up a hammer, as if he were about to throw it.

"One of my agents just got back from Italy," Tobias began a moment later, smirking at the empty threat, "and is absolutely convinced he saw your Agent DiNozzo in Naples pretending to be someone else."

"He must have been mistaken." Gibbs tossed the hammer aside and returned his focus to the boat. "DiNozzo is in Rota."

"Are you sure, Jethro?" Fornell asked. "Because when it comes to DiNozzo, Sacks has a pretty good memory." Abandoning his efforts to find a clean cup, he pinned Gibbs with a look. "Your new director has a reputation for … let's just call them unconventional operations." Gibbs grunted sourly in agreement. "If I were you," Tobias finished, "I'd make sure he wasn't in trouble."

"He isn't." Jenny's voice rang out from the top of the stairwell, cold and hard. Instantly, Tobias grimaced and glanced in her direction. "Agent Fornell," she greeted as she strode down the rickety stairs, her eyes flashing with muted annoyance.

"Director Shepard," Tobias answered with a nod. "Didn't mean to step on your toes," he started to explain.

"I'm well aware of your relationship with Agent Gibbs," Jenny interrupted, "but Special Agent DiNozzo's status is not your concern."

"But it is mine," Jethro growled as he rose to his feet. He glared at his new director for a long time, wishing he could still read her like he used to. These days, she was a bureaucrat first, and an investigator last.

"That, I think," Fornell interjected, "is my cue to leave. Jethro, Director." He fled with slightly undue haste and, at any other time, Gibbs would have harassed him for it.

"What are you doing with my agent?" Jethro demanded the moment he heard the front door shut. He suspected that Tobias slammed it harder than necessary just to make sure that his departure was known and silently thanked his old friend for it.

"He isn't your agent anymore, Jethro." Jenny began walking around the boat, frowning slightly as she took in the slight discoloration on the floor where Ari Haswari died. Though he'd meant to clean up the stain, Gibbs had never quite been able to find the motivation. Each time he began to gather the appropriate chemicals, memory of Kate's blood splashing across Tony's face caused him to put it off for one more day. It was a shrine of sorts, another reminder that the people he cared about could be taken from him in a heartbeat.

And he desperately wanted to avoid having to erect one in honor of Tony.

"He'll be _my _agent until the day he dies," he said angrily.

"Then maybe you should have treated him better!" Shepard snapped. She crossed her arms and squared her feet, visibly settling in for a long overdue confrontation. Gibbs drew in a tight breath and decided to change tactics.

"Tony isn't in Rota, is he?" he asked. When Jenny blinked in slight surprise at how calm he spoke, he pressed on. "That's why Ziva can't get in touch with him, why he doesn't return her calls and why he's always in the field when she _does _speak to someone." Shepard sighed.

"No," she said, "he isn't there." Her aggressiveness fell away and she suddenly looked tired. "An arms shipment intended for terrorist groups in the Middle East was intercepted a month ago," Jenny began, grabbing one of the metal cups that had paint brushes in it and dumping them onto the table. She pushed the cup toward him, a nonverbal demand for alcohol. "The weapons were backtracked and discovered to have originated with Fleet Forces Command," she continued, using the modern identification for what Jethro still thought of as the Atlantic Fleet. He frowned as he tipped a healthy amount of bourbon into her cup. "When checked," Jenny said once she'd taken a swallow of the whiskey, "everything was listed as combat loss or still in storage."

"Which means an inside job," Jethro mused. "You said it was seized, not that _we _seized it," he added a moment later. "And you failed to identify _which _terrorist groups, so I'm going to assume it was meant for Hamas." She winced slightly before nodding.

"Mossad secured it," she admitted, "and Director David passed on the intel to me."

"And Ziva doesn't know about this why?" Gibbs demanded. Jenny shrugged.

"You'll have to take that up with them," she said, "though I'd prefer you kept this quiet. We don't know how extensive this leak is and Tony's cover is tenuous at best."

"This better not be about La Grenouille," Jethro growled. Shepard's eyes narrowed at the utterance of her white whale and her nostrils flared.

"It isn't," she replied darkly. "And before you ask," she continued, "I offered him the Rota job before I even became aware of this situation. Once this undercover assignment is over, he'll take over in Spain as planned." She placed the cup on the table and glared at him. "So deal with the mess you created, Jethro," Jenny ordered coldly, "because I'm tired of having to clean up after Hurricane Gibbs." Without another word, she climbed the stairs and left.

His mind racing, Jethro picked up the block of sandpaper and returned to his meditation, hoping it would show him a way to apologize to Tony.

But it didn't.


	9. Things Fall Apart, 9: Tim

**A/N:** Time period is immediately pre-4.05 "Dead and Unburied."

And behold: my first ever crack!ship. Though it is kinda necessary for this story...

* * *

**Tim**

From the looks of it, this was going to be a bad morning.

A dark expression on his face, Tim stared at a long scratch down the side of his new Porsche that _had _to have come from a key and wondered how much Ziva charged for personalized assassinations. He crouched before the car and rubbed at the mar, hoping against hope that it would come out with just a little bit of elbow grease. Barely a month old and already it had become the target of punks who belonged in jail.

_I need a new apartment,_ he mused bitterly as he climbed into the car and started the engine. With the publication of _Deep Six_ and the rave reviews it was receiving, he could finally afford a nicer place, somewhere safer and with far fewer thugs, someplace closer to the campus and with a second bedroom so he wouldn't sleep on the couch when Sarah came over. Tim made a mental note to begin checking for new apartments when he got home later.

A loud _bang _echoed around him several minutes and McGee cursed at the distinctive feel of driving on a flat tire. Turning into the nearest parking lot – an all-night convenience store – he braked and fought the urge to scream. He _knew _he shouldn't have taken this damned road, not with all the problems the city had keeping it clean of junk, no matter how quicker it normally was to the Navy Yard. Grabbing his cell phone, he dialed the office.

"Ziva David," came an almost instant response. Tim tried not to think about the hopeful lilt to her voice.

"It's McGee," he said. "I've got a flat tire and will be late."

"I will inform Gibbs," Ziva replied, with barely a hint of disappointment that he wasn't Tony _finally _responding to her calls. "Do not be _too_ late. He was already here when I arrived and is in a foul mood today."

"When _isn't _he in a bad mood?" Tim replied before hanging up. He dragged himself out of his car and popped the trunk with a heavy sigh. There were few things he hated more than changing tires. _Get to work, Probie; that tire isn't gonna change itself,_ his conscience shouted at him, sounding suspiciously like DiNozzo.

McGee hoped he wasn't going crazy.

"Mister Gemcity?" a familiar voice called out long minutes later and McGee glanced up from where he was seated on the ground, lugwrench in hand. The first thing he was aware of was green medical scrubs and an unmistakably feminine shape that reminded him it had been a _very _long time since he'd been on a date. _Eyes up! _He blinked in surprise when he finally recognized the attractive woman standing before him.

"Doctor Benoit," he greeted with surprise on his face. He quickly scrambled to his feet, wincing at how filthy his hands were. "Hi!" he said stupidly.

"I thought that was you," the pretty doctor said with a smile on her face. "How's your head?" she asked. Tim blinked for a minute before realizing what she must be talking about. On Gibbs' orders a week or so earlier, he had visited the E.R. after Mike Franks knocked him out. The receptionist of the hospital had recognized him from the jacket photo of _Deep Six_, and had erroneously put down his pseudonym instead of his real name.

"Well," McGee replied, gesturing toward the newly replaced tire, "it was fine until this morning." She laughed at the unintentional joke and Tim wracked his brain with something witty to say. Pretty women always messed him up and Doctor Benoit was _very _attractive.

"Did the police catch the man who mugged you?" she asked and McGee winced internally at the reminder of the lie he'd told her about how he got the knot on his head. He'd been so embarrassed at having been taken out by a man more than twice his age that the story about being jumped from behind by someone after his wallet had tumbled out of his mouth before he even realized he was talking. It had been like he was standing to one side, watching someone else speak with his voice.

"Uh … they haven't told me," he replied with a sheepish grin. "Statistically speaking," he continued, "most muggers don't get caught." _Stop talking, McRambler!_ _You'll chase her off! _Once again, his inner voice spoke up and Tim almost glanced behind him to see if Tony was standing there, winking or, more likely, nudging for McGee to get out of the way so DiNozzo could flirt with the pretty doctor. "How are you doing?" Tim asked as he began wiping his hands with the rag he'd wisely dragged out of the trunk.

"About the same as you, I think," she admitted. She gestured in the direction of her own car and Tim whistled softly at the sight of multiple flat tires. "I think I must have hit the same thing you did."

"Do you need any help changing the tires?" McGee asked instinctively before wincing at the inherent chauvinism in the comment. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I didn't mean to imply-"

"Oh, don't worry about it," Doctor Benoit said with a laugh. "You were being a gentleman, and some of us women still appreciate the thought behind it." She gestured with her cell phone. "But I've already called my auto service to have it fixed." Even as she spoke, the phone rang. "Excuse me," she said as she answered it. Tim watched for a moment, discreetly admiring how well the scrubs clung to her lovely backside, before jerking his head to one side. He knelt and finished tightening the lug nuts on the changed tire. Inwardly, he groaned at the thought of visiting the dealership to get the flat fixed and silently hoped the pushy salesman who had pestered him so badly wouldn't be there this time.

"Dammit," Benoit murmured as she snapped her phone closed. She glared in the direction of her parked car.

"Something wrong?" Tim asked, causing her to jump. She gave him a sheepish smile.

"My ridiculously overpriced auto service can't be here until noon," she grumbled sourly.

"I could give you a ride," McGee said automatically. The doctor gave him a hesitant look, no doubt thinking about all of the horror stories she'd heard about people getting abducted in these sorts of situations. "I'm completely harmless," he said with a half-grin. She returned the smile.

"You don't mind?" she asked. "I'd hate to be a bother."

"You aren't," Tim insisted. He quickly manhandled the flat tire into the trunk, ignoring how badly it messed up his shirt, and began wiping his hands down with the already dirty rag.

"Thank you, Mister Gemcity," the doctor said.

"It's Tim, actually," he replied. "Tim McGee. Gemcity is my writing pseudonym."

"I'm Jeanne," she replied, scrunching up her nose and frowning. "Wait … Gemcity? As in _Deep Six _Gemcity?"

"Guilty as charged," Tim said with a shrug. He felt a rush of pleasure at how her eyes lit up.

"I _loved _that book!" the woman gushed. "The characters are so real!"

They talked about _Deep Six _the rest of the way to the hospital, with Jeanne proving to be rather insightful when it came to the various relationships within the story. Tommy DiNardo and Lisa Dahan, it turned out, were her favorite characters of the book, and the innocent revelation caused McGee to sigh inwardly. Since Tony had left for Rota, Tim hadn't been able to write a single sentence that didn't suck. It was like his Muse had decided to go visit Spain with DiNozzo.

"I can't thank you enough," Jeanne said as he pulled into the visitor's drop-off point. "We're already shorthanded and being late…"

"Don't worry about it," Tim replied. "I was happy to help." The doctor bit her lower lip.

"I still feel like I owe you," she remarked and, to McGee's surprise, something extraordinary happened. He opened his mouth…

And Tony spoke.

"Then have dinner with me," he said. McGee wasn't sure who was more surprised, Jeanne or him, but he couldn't stop the words from tumbling from his lips. Or, for that matter, did he _want_ to stop them. "No strings attached," he added. "Just dinner." When she hesitated, he put into play some suggestions he remembered hearing DiNozzo once offer. "You pick the restaurant," he said, "and we'll meet there so you can leave whenever you want." Flashing a smile that he hoped was vaguely Tony-like in its appeal, he continued. "I pay, though. I like being a gentleman."

"All right," Jeanne said with a smile of her own. She fished out a business card and quickly jotted down a number on the back. "This is my home number. I'll be home between six and seven tonight." Her eyes sparkled and Tim felt his insides twist with excitement. "Talk to you later, Mister Gemcity," she said as she climbed out of the car and walked toward the hospital entrance, pausing only to give him a wave.

_Way to go, Probie!_ The imaginary voice of Tony jolted him into action and he nearly stalled out the Porsche as he let off the clutch a little too soon. A stupid grin on his face, he pulled out of the hospital parking lot and raced to the Navy Yard. The guards manning the metal detector waved him through and he nearly danced to his seat.

"You are certainly happy this morning," Ziva commented from her desk as dropped his backpack onto the floor. There was no sign of Gibbs and Michelle Lee watched him from McGee's old desk, trepidation and worry in her eyes. She still hadn't gotten accustomed to working for Gibbs and was jumping at every shadow.

"That's because I'm in a great mood!" Tim replied. "Well," he added, "beside the fact that somebody keyed my car and I had a flat tire." He smiled. "I managed to get a date with a very beautiful woman who happens to be a doctor." Ziva's smile faltered for a moment and her eyes instinctively darted to the phone on her desk. Instantly, McGee knew she was thinking about Tony and how he had unceremoniously severed all ties with D.C. For the last month, they had tried to reach him through phone calls, emails and even the occasional MTAC video conference, but he was _never_ available. In the last week, Ziva had moved on from being sad and hurt to angry, especially when Director Shepard flatly refused to get involved.

"You trying to turn into DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked as he swept into the bullpen. "Gear up," he ordered before Tim could reply. "A realtor just discovered a dead Marine in a house she's trying to sell." He tossed the keys toward Ziva. "David's driving," he said.

But even that couldn't spoil McGee's day.


	10. Things Fall Apart, 10: Tony

**A/N:** Time period is during 4.06 "Witch Hunt."

And Author Alerts are nice, but actual reviews would be better to let me know what I'm doing right or wrong. Major thanks to those of you who are consistently reviewing this experiment (_especially _those who really get in depth!)

I also stand by my warning two chapters ago: unlike most other Tony/Ziva fans, the spoilers that are leaking out about these final four episodes are _not _filling me with confidence and I suspect that I'm going to be disappointed (which is about par for the course this year.)

* * *

**Tony**

Adrenaline was coursing through his veins.

His muscles burning and his heart pounding like a triphammer, Tony raced through the cramped corridors of the U.S.S. _Enterprise_, his Sig drawn and ready. The crewmen of the venerable aircraft carrier scrambled for cover as he pounded toward the ladder, though whether it was because of him or the squad of heavily armed Marines on his six he neither knew nor cared. All that mattered was catching Commander Smith before he could get off the ship and disappear into Naval Station Norfolk. All that mattered was the job.

"Make a hole!" Gunnery Sergeant Rodriguez bellowed as they darted up onto the flight deck and discovered a cluster of bored looking seamen out for a smoke break blocking their path. As one, the crewmen – grapes, blueshirts and greenshirts – dove to the deck. Tony's barely noticed as his eyes were locked on the figure of his suspect as the commander made his way toward the gangplank connecting _Enterprise _to the dock.

A powerfully built African-American, David Smith was the logistics officer who coordinated most of the supply runs for the _Enterprise _and much of the U.S. Navy's Fleet Forces Command. Every bit of evidence acquired so far pointed toward him being responsible for the redirection of the arms that Mossad had seized nearly two months earlier, despite the utter lack of motive. According to his personnel jacket, his wife of six years, Salima, was a second-generation Palestinian American whose parents had moved to the United States in 1967 following the Six-Day War between Israel and the armies of Egypt, Jordan and Syria. She had been thoroughly vetted by Naval Intelligence following Smith's marriage and deemed to have no ties to Hamas or the PLO. In fact, she'd been the perfect wife according to everything Tony had learned about her in the course of his investigation.

She'd also been dead of a single gunshot wound to the head for going on four years.

It was only lucky circumstance that allowed a Jane Doe to be identified as Salima Farhan Smith – while attending the University of Michigan, something Tony _tried _not to hold against her – the _real _Salima Farhan had participated in a blind study for the Human Genome Project, so her results were already on file when the badly decomposed corpse had been discovered in an abandoned Kansas cornfield by a pair of joyriding teenagers. At the same time as this discovery, however, the woman claiming to be Commander Smith's wife was purchasing groceries in a Virginia super market along with her five year old son. It was the final piece of the puzzle that DiNozzo had been looking for and cracked open at least one part of the case.

So here Tony was, leading a team of Marines, in hot pursuit of a U.S. Naval commander who may or may not even be who he claimed to be, a mere two hundred or so miles away from the city he still considered home, within spitting distance (metaphorically speaking) of the people he had come to think of as family, and a phone call away from the woman he still dreamed of occasionally and missed far more than he had any right to since she had made it perfectly clear who and what she wanted. And it _wasn't _him.

Sometimes, it just didn't pay to get out of bed in the morning.

"NCIS!" he shouted as the Marines flanked him, their M4 carbines snapping up to cover the commander fast-walking toward the gangplank. "Commander David Smith! Get on the ground now!"

His eyes wide, Smith turned slowly and Tony bit back a curse when he caught sight of the pistol in the commander's hand. It was already coming up when a volley of gunfire – the entire Marine squad opening up – erupted around him. Smith collapsed in an explosion of crimson as a dozen rifle rounds punched through his torso.

"Cease fire!" Tony screamed. He sprang forward, cursing bitterly under his breath at the instinctive response of the Marines. They hadn't done anything wrong – Smith had a weapon, they knew he was probably dirty, and they had reacted exactly as trained – but this certainly wasn't how he wanted this to go down when he come aboard. The moment Rodriguez's team stormed into the commander's office and discovered the computer was already wiped, though, DiNozzo had expected this was the only way it _could _go down.

"Corpsman!" Gunnery Sergeant Rodriguez shouted as DiNozzo drew alongside the mortally wounded commander, kicking the dropped pistol – an M9 semiautomatic, the standard sidearm of the U.S. military – clear of Smith's hands. At a glance, Tony could tell the man was already too far gone for anyone but the nearest medical examiner and a morgue, but he knelt beside him nonetheless. To his surprise, Smith pinned him with eyes reflecting pure agony.

"My … son," the commander rasped. "Save … my … son … from …"

And then, he was gone.

"Sonuvabitch," Tony muttered. He rose, exchanging a grim glance with the gunnery sergeant. "Don't touch that!" he snapped as one of the Marines bent to retrieve the pistol. The lance corporal jumped back and backed away as DiNozzo holstered his Sig. He dug out the small digital camera he carried most places these days. "Everybody back," he ordered sourly. This was the part of the job he hated the most. It always felt like the sort thing a serial killer would do after murdering a victim. "Gunny, I need to record this."

"You heard the man!" Rodriguez growled. "Form a perimeter! Three meters! Now!"

Quickly taking what photos were necessary – and _only _what was necessary – Tony slid the camera back into its place in his jacket before donning a pair of plastic gloves and dropping the M9 into an evidence bag retrieved from a different pocket. He nodded to the gunnery sergeant who stood beside two corpsmen carrying an aluminum stretcher. At the senior Marine's gesture, they darted forward to put the corpse on it.

"Sorry about that, Agent DiNozzo," Rodriguez said as he came to stand next to Tony. They knew each from way back; one of DiNozzo's first investigations at NCIS had been when Rodriguez, then a drill instructor at Parris Island, had been accused of murdering a recruit under his command. This recruit, it turned out, had been the nephew of a prominent senator and the man had demanded then-Director Morrow put his best team on the case. It had taken nearly two weeks of hard work with little to no sleep, too much coffee and crappy Chinese take-out, but they ultimately cleared the D.I. of all charges and identified the real perpetrator, a fellow recruit improbably jealous of the murder victim for reasons that never made much sense. Discovering that the gunnery sergeant was aboard the _Enterprise _had been a welcome surprise; at first, Tony hadn't recalled the man, but Rodriguez had certainly remembered him and hadn't hesitated to follow DiNozzo's lead. "I know you wanted him alive-" the non-commissioned officer began.

"Your Marines did nothing wrong, Gunny," Tony interrupted. "We call this suicide by cop," he added with a sigh. "Smith knew we were onto him and chose how to die. If you hadn't shot him, he'd have shot one of us. I've seen it a dozen times." DiNozzo shook his head. "Sometimes," he admitted softly, "I hate this damned job."

"You and me both, brother," the gunnery sergeant muttered. His eyes were locked on the shell-shocked faces of some of his Marines, none of whom looked old enough to drive, let alone be wearing a uniform. Tony winced as he realized how green most of them were. _Not anymore, _he mused sadly.

"I need to go report to your captain," DiNozzo said, nodding to the two youngest of the Marines. "Think they can show me the way?" It wasn't really necessary – he'd been on carriers enough to have just enough of a sense how they worked to get to the CIC without any help – but would get them away from their first body and give them something to focus on. Rodriguez gave him a grateful grin before donning a drill instructor scowl.

"Ramos! Jones!" The two Marines snapped to attention. "Escort Special Agent DiNozzo to the captain!"

"Try not to get me lost," Tony said, flashing a broad grin he didn't really feel. Still, it always paid to keep up appearances, especially when your escort might very well decide to puke on your shoes at any point. "The last time I was on one of these boats, I spent an hour trying to find the damned head."

_Enterprise's _skipper was – unsurprisingly – pissed off that he'd just had an officer gunned down on the flight deck by his Marines, but somehow managed to keep from biting DiNozzo's head off. Tony suspected it was due to his own dark expression, although the loaded sidearm at DiNozzo's side probably helped a little bit too.

"I need to make a secure call," Tony said once the captain started to cool down and realize the enormity of what had happened. Already, the grey-haired man was beginning to look a little dazed himself, which was to be expected as well. How often was it that you found out a man you served with, that you thought you knew was actually a traitor?

"How am I going to tell his wife?" the skipper wondered aloud and DiNozzo gave him a tight frown.

"Leave that to NCIS," he replied. Minutes later, he was waiting for the secure video connection to go through. When it did, he spoke at once. "Smith's dead so tell me _you_ have good news."

"I wish I could," came the instant response. "Fornell's team raided the house but she was already gone." On the small screen, Michael Rivkin glared. Since their completely coincidental meeting nearly a month and a half earlier, the highly effective Mossad officer had been Tony's almost constant partner and back-up in this ongoing investigation that had taken them from Spain to Italy and now back to the States so quickly his head was beginning to swim. DiNozzo wasn't sure if it was Director David's idea or Jenny's, but he'd stopped trying to find out if there were any ulterior motives behind the pairing and instead gave thanks that the man was _nearly_ as competent in the field as Ziva was. Not as nice to look at, of course, and Rivkin sometimes needed a sense of humor transplant, but Tony thought it was still good to know he had someone on his six he could generally trust. "She left the boy behind though," Michael added.

"Alive?" Rivkin's head shake caused Tony to close his eyes in horrified disgust. What kind of monsters were they dealing with? No wonder Mossad operatives were so hardcore if _this _was how their enemies acted. "Someone talked, Michael," he said. "Smith knew we were coming and had already wiped his hard drive." Rivkin nodded.

"Agent Fornell is taking me to meet with Director Shepard so we can coordinate our next move," the Mossad officer said. "I'll meet you there." The connection blinked off and Tony sighed.

"God," he murmured to no one in particular. "I hate Halloween."

Two hours later, he was on a plane bound for Israel with Michael, wondering how the hell he'd let Jenny talk into this damned investigation in the first place.


	11. Things Fall Apart, 11: Ziva

**A/N:** Time period is post 4.07 "Sandblast."

I've finally figured out a way to tighten the narrative somewhat, so the story-telling style in this fic is going to undergo some minor changes in the near future. It should be a seamless change, however, so hopefully it won't be immediately obvious, but careful observers might be able to notice.

* * *

**Ziva**

Ziva was furious.

It was a culmination of factors, ranging from a three month streak of unbroken abstinence caused by her own stupid mistakes, to Gibbs continually pairing her off with Michelle Lee, a rookie still so scared of her own shadow that Ziva would not trust the probationary officer to take out the trash, let alone cover her back. Today had been a prime example of that and a grim reminder of just what she had lost when she pushed Tony away in order to protect him.

Thoughts of DiNozzo caused another hot flash of anger to flare up within her belly. After three and a half months, it still hurt that he was refusing to even return her calls so she had simply stopped trying. Ziva was intelligent enough to understand that he was uninterested in talking to her – she had seen him do something similar to ex-lovers back in her first year at NCIS, so it certainly was not out of character for him – even if it was to listen to her apologize. Knowing him, he had already bedded a dozen or so Spanish women and probably did not even give her much thought. What they had was only casual, after all, and the ease with which he walked away from their relationship was proof that he had not lost track of that fact as she apparently had. So, for the last week, she had focused on the job and actually started forcing herself to begin putting their fractured relationship in the past.

She just wished she knew why it hurt so much.

The wheels of the Charger she was driving squealed as she took a sharp corner at an unsafe speed and Ziva fought back an evil grin at the terrified gasp she heard from her passenger. Lee deserved it after abandoning Ziva at the warehouse earlier today; it did not matter that Gibbs had ordered them out once they saw the explosive device – there was no way that _Tony _would have left her to disarm the bomb alone, even if his arms and legs were broken and he was bleeding out from a sucking chest wound. They were partners and partners watched each other's backs, no matter what.

That Gibbs had later yelled at her for disregarding his orders, even if it was ultimately the reason they had an intact bomb instead of a leveled warehouse, only infuriated Ziva more. Of anyone, he should have understood why she did what she did. In fact, he _would _have understood if he had not been so distracted by the Army CID colonel or was not still trying to deal with his unresolved emotions over DiNozzo's departure; the catch in his voice when he spoke about his 'son, Tony' to the mentally unstable would-be suicide bomber had not escaped her – or Tim's – notice, though it had caused Colonel Mann to frown in slight confusion. Ziva wondered if Gibbs had tried to contact DiNozzo as well or if he was adhering to his inane 'no apologies' mantra…

_Stop thinking about Tony, _Ziva ordered herself as she raced through a yellow light turning to red, swerving sharply to switch lanes in the process and narrowly avoiding a slow-moving SUV. It only made things worse when she allowed her thoughts drift to DiNozzo. Even listening to Michelle's soft whimpers of terror were not enough to improve her mood today. Shooting a quick, sidelong glance at rookie next to her, Ziva nodded. Now was the perfect time to speak: she had, after all, a hostage audience. Or was that an imprisoned one? Stupid English.

"When we are in the field," she said abruptly, changing lanes once more and braking hard so she could make a hard ninety degree turn, "I expect you to cover my back at all times."

"Gibbs told us to leave," Lee replied, clinging to the handhold – Tony had often called it the 'oh, shit' bar, especially when she or their boss drove – over her door with what looked like a death grip.

"He was _wrong_," Ziva hissed. She mashed down on the accelerator when she saw the traffic light ahead of them turn from green to yellow. A moment later, she slammed on the brakes and yanked the steering wheel to the right, sending the Charger into a harsh skid that turned into a T-Stop. Almost casually, she rolled down the window as they approached the checkpoint leading into the Navy Yard. The two Marines on duty smiled in recognition – one of them was leering more than smiling – and accepted the ID she and Lee passed them.

"Agent Gibbs beat you back, Officer David," the older of the pair said. He was stocky without being fat, and his eyes danced with mirth. Ziva grunted.

"Of course he did," she said sourly. "He always does."

"I'm not going to go against Agent Gibbs' orders, Officer David," Lee murmured softly the moment they were clear of the checkpoint. Ziva glanced in the mirror, momentarily admiring the features of the younger guard. Her stomach lurched when she realized how much he looked like Tony. "Not even for you," Michelle said.

"If that is the case," Ziva said tersely, "then you and I have a serious problem." Michelle visibly recoiled at the threat implicit in her statement, but offered no further comment, even when they reached their destination. Grabbing her gear, Ziva left the rookie behind as she stormed into the main NCIS building. To her secret relief, Gibbs was already waiting in front of the elevator, a cup of coffee in hand. He gave her a look before frowning slightly at her expression. Ziva shook her head sharply when he was about to speak and he recognized her warning: not here. There was no one else in the elevator when it opened and Lee caught one glance of Ziva's expression before instantly deviating toward the stairwell. Gibbs noticed but said nothing as he pressed the button for the bullpen floor.

"I cannot work with Agent Lee," Ziva said the moment the door closed. Gibbs gave her a sidelong glance before hitting the emergency stop button. Recognizing her unspoken cue to continue, Ziva spoke again. "She does not have the instincts for this job-"

"DiNozzo apparently thought she did," Gibbs retorted coolly, his eyes narrowed as he sipped from his coffee. Using Tony's name in that way had turned into his way of deflecting any criticism Ziva gave him about the rookie on the their team and always had an innuendo-laden subtext to it, as if he was daring her to say anything bad about the now absent DiNozzo's judgment.

"No," Ziva replied instantly, "he did not." When Gibbs blinked in mild surprise, she added, "Director Shepard placed Agent Lee on the team against Tony's wishes." A hot flush of anger swelled at mentioning the director's name; Ziva had yet to forgive Jenny for flatly refusing to pass on word to Tony to contact her. "He believed it was her attempt to rein in some of the less legal methods of information gathering Tony learned from you."

"And he just told you this." Gibbs frowned and she could see his thoughts racing. Even with his occasional lapses of judgment – far fewer now than when he first returned – there had been no way that he could have failed to notice how incompetent Lee was with anything but paperwork or legal matters. "Was this before or after the two of you starting sleeping together?"

"Before," Ziva said, infusing as much coldness into her voice as she could manage. She no longer cared that Gibbs knew that she and Tony were … had been involved, regardless of his ridiculous rules. "Having her in the field is dangerous," she added when he faltered in the face of her brutal honesty. "She is going to get someone killed because she does not know what to do."

"Then _teach _her," Gibbs snapped. He hit the emergency stop button to continue the elevator's journey, but Ziva reached forward and shut it off again.

"We have tried!" she said darkly. "We have spent four months trying! She does not have the proper instincts for this job!"

"Neither did McGee when he started," her boss growled. Despite his words, however, he looked … hesitant, conflicted. Ziva frowned at the sudden realization.

"You know," she accused him angrily. "You know she is not fitting out."

"Fitting in," Gibbs corrected absently. He exhaled deeply, suddenly looking older and more exhausted than he ever had. "I already asked to have her kicked back to Legal," he said, "but the director is firm: Lee stays." Grimacing, he gave her a harsh glare. "Do you know why I'm constantly pairing her with you, Ziva?" he asked flatly. "Because you're the only one I trust to keep her alive out there now that Tony's gone," he said, his voice tightening with the utterance of DiNozzo's name. He pinned her with a dark look as he hit the emergency stop button once more. "So get over your issues with her," he ordered, "and deal with it."

He pushed through the still opening elevator door with a foul look on his face, and Ziva pursued, her own expression positively lethal. McGee glanced up from his desk but just as quickly returned his attention to his computer screen when Gibbs scowled at him. The presence of Colonel Mann in front of Gibbs' desk was no real surprise – she had been sniffing around the silver-haired senior field agent since their first meeting and Ziva felt another flicker of distress at Tony's absence as she imagined his expression at witnessing the two flirt – but seeing Director Shepard reclining in Gibbs' chair did cause Ziva to miss a step.

"Well done today, Jethro," Shepard said in greeting.

"Not good enough," Gibbs replied. "Sharif is still out there."

"And we'll find him," Mann interjected. She and Shepard exchanged a long, almost antagonistic look that nearly made Ziva laugh out loud. If Tony was here, she decided, he would have said something funny, something that might have earned him a headslap or a quick glare.

Ziva sighed. She really needed to start thinking about something other than DiNozzo. What she needed, was a night out dancing. And if that night happened to end up in some nameless man's bed for a few hours of meaningless sex, well … that might be for the best after all. Maybe it was what she needed to get Tony out of her system once and for all.

Maybe. Hopefully.


	12. Things Fall Apart, 12: Tim

**A/N:** Time period is post 4.08 "Once a Hero."

* * *

**Tim**

He hated paperwork.

If he didn't have to deal with it on a daily basis, Tim would never have believed just how much work the senior field agent was expected to do and, not for the first time, he wondered how Tony had managed. Most of the time, DiNozzo had come across as a lazy slacker who routinely pushed off things he didn't want to do on McGee, but after weeks of this slow death by reports, Tim was beginning to completely reevaluate everything he knew or believed he knew about Tony. Sure, he had acted as the senior field agent for DiNozzo while Gibbs was on his Mexican hiatus, but it was rapidly becoming clear that, at the time, Tony had done not only the boss' job, but half of Tim's as well. Had the man even slept? Maybe that's why the team leader invariably subsisted on coffee alone…

A heavy sigh from across the bullpen drew his attention, and Tim glanced up as Ziva snapped her cell phone shut. For a long moment, he couldn't tell if she was going to explode into a bloody rage or start sobbing uncontrollably, so intense was her expression, and McGee winced internally as he realized that the date she had so been looking forward tonight had canceled.

Again.

"Am I attractive?" Ziva asked abruptly. The question came out of nowhere, but caused Tim to choke slightly on the coffee he was trying to sip. He gave her a wide-eyed look, quickly glancing around to make sure she was actually talking to him, before responding as intelligently as only a man with a Masters in Computer Forensics from MIT and a BS in Biomedical Engineering from Johns Hopkins University could.

"Uh, what?"

"It is not a difficult question, McGee." The Israeli woman was glaring at him, as if he had just insulted her mother or shot her dog. "Do you find me attractive?" Tim wet his lips – some of his best fantasies had both Abby and Ziva asking him leading questions like that though he'd cut out his own tongue with a dull knife before ever admitting it to either of them, especially since one could kill him and the other could help her get away with it – and struggled with the best way to answer her query that would allow him to escape with all of his body parts intact. She noticed his hesitation, however, and her expression darkened.

"Why exactly are you asking me this?" Tim wondered. The paperwork for their latest case still wasn't done and he'd promised Jeanne that they could go dancing tonight … or more accurately, _she _would dance and he would move his legs around in a reasonable facsimile of dancing. He tried not to think about that – there were few things he liked more than to watch his girlfriend of two months while she was on the dance floor. There hadn't been much time for them to have more than a handful of dates, what with her general lack of free time thanks to her studies and being constantly on call at the hospital. His own work schedule – and Gibbs' insistence that they be ready, willing and able to drop everything at a moment's notice – only complicated matters even more.

"Because!" Ziva snapped in response to his question. She glowered at her desk. "I am trying to find out what I am doing wrong!" Almost the moment the words left her lips, she flushed in embarrassment and looked away. Her shoulders sagged and she exhaled bitterly.

Tim was silent for a long moment as he discreetly studied the Mossad liaison. She looked tired – no more than usual, really; Gibbs was driving them hard after Agent Lee's latest near death experience, this time with the underage prostitution ring last week – but there was something … intangible about her anymore, a deep-rooted sadness or subtle anger that made her seem like she was on the verge of blood-soaked violence. It had been there for a while now, probably since she returned from Israel, and made her hard to approach, especially when she got the dangerous light in her eyes that made her look like she had when she first joined the team. McGee drew in a steadying breath before making a quick decision. Regardless of the danger, she was still his friend and teammate. Pushing his chair out from behind the desk, he slid it across the floor to her side.

"Are you okay?" McGee asked softly. She gave him a curious look.

"I am fine," she said tightly.

"Is this because of Tony?" Tim asked carefully. Anthony DiNozzo remained a sore subject to broach in her presence.

"Tony?" Ziva scoffed. "It has nothing to do with Tony!"

"So there _is _something," McGee remarked, his eyes brightening as he pounced. Ziva blinked slowly as she stared at him, and suddenly Tim was reminded of how dangerous she could be when she put her mind to it. If she wanted to, she could kill him with her pinky and there was no way he could stop her. McGee swallowed.

But the moment passed when she blew out a frustrated breath.

"I am having … a dry … curse?" Ziva said softly. Tim frowned.

"Do you mean a dry _spell_?" he asked. "As in dating?" She nodded.

"I do not know what is wrong with me," she said glumly as she stared at her cell phone. "Every man I meet is involved, uninterested, homosexual or uncomfortable around me!" McGee offered her a slight smile.

"Sounds like Tony took your mojo with him," he remarked. She blinked and he was about to explain the reference when she spoke.

"Are you calling him Doctor Evil?" Ziva asked. Tim gaped for a moment and it caused her to glance around self-consciously. "What?" she demanded.

"I'm just surprised you made an Austin Powers reference." She shrugged.

"Tony made me watch them," she explained. "I did not particularly like the sequels, but he did." She leaned back heavily in her chair. "The world is upside down," Ziva muttered.

And Tim couldn't help but to agree with her. Here she was, having a Saharan-level dry spell while he was seeing a gorgeous and intelligent doctor, Abby was gushing over her bowling dates with Marty, Michelle and Palmer's office romance was obvious to anyone with eyes, and even Gibbs seemed to be returning to normal with Colonel Mann. It almost seemed as if Tony _had _taken Ziva's mojo with him. If it wasn't so sad, it would be funny.

No, scratch that. It _was _funny.

"If you laugh at me," Ziva warned when his lips began twitching, "I will show you how Mossad interrogators _convince_ Hamas agents to talk." She brandished a letter opener he knew she'd stolen from Tony before he left. "And it is not … comfortable." Tim flashed her a grin as he pushed himself back to his desk.

"If you killed me," he mocked, "you'd have to deal with Lee all by yourself." Ziva glowered darkly.

"Unless I decide to kill her too," she grumbled. She stabbed at the keyboard in front of her fiercely and McGee could hear the responding whir of the printer. Lips tight with an annoyed frown, Ziva retrieved the report, gave it a quick glance and scribbled her illegible signature at the bottom before rising to her feet. Without comment, she stepped across the bullpen to stand before Tim's desk where she slammed the report down with a touch more force than was entirely necessary. "I am done," she said tightly, "and since my date canceled _again_, I am going home." Ziva didn't bother waiting for his reply as she grabbed her backpack and stalked away to the elevator.

Tim sighed as he picked up her report and dropped it into his inbox. It seemed inconceivable that _he _would have to approve _her _paperwork before passing it on to Gibbs given their respective levels of experience, but regulations were clear: one of the senior field agent's duties was to make sure the junior agents – or, in Ziva's case, the Mossad liaison – filled out their reports properly. McGee wondered how he'd never given it much thought before having to step into Tony's shoes.

But then, there were a _lot _of things he hadn't thought about before DiNozzo left.

He worked in silence for another twenty or thirty minutes, signing off on Ziva's nearly perfect report of the incident this afternoon involving her takedown of a severely inebriated Marine who thought it would be a good idea to take a swing at her. Sighing, Tim placed it in the outbox and gave his remaining workload a quick glance. Could he hold off on finishing it until tomorrow? More importantly, would Gibbs notice if it wasn't done? _Of course he'd notice_, _Probie, _McGee's conscience whispered, once more sounding so like Tony that it caused Tim to smile. He wondered what it said about his state of mind that he no longer gave the imaginary voice a second thought.

The shrill chirp of his phone – his _personal _phone – broke into his musings and he quickly picked it up, his smile broadening at the caller id: Jeanne.

"Hey," he said as he leaned back in his seat.

"Hey," she replied, exhaustion in her voice. "I need to cancel tonight," she continued. "One of our attendings is out sick so I'm going to have to pull a double-shift."

"Oh," Tim said. He chewed on his lower lip. "Anything I can do to make it better?"

"Bring breakfast for me?" Jeanne asked hopefully. McGee laughed.

"McDonald's or Burger King?" he chuckled.

"Tiiiim," she started to whine.

"Double cheese omelet," McGee recited dutifully. "Large frapachino and a slice of toast."

"You're the best," Jeanne said. Over the phone, Tim could hear her name being paged. "I've got to go," she said quickly. "Night, Tim." The line went dead before he could respond.

Smiling, he lowered the phone, wondering how he'd suddenly become so lucky. First, _Deep Six _was climbing up the best seller charts – his agent hinted at a top ten spot next week on _The New York Times _list – and now, he was dating a beautiful and funny woman. Life simply could not get any better!

"Special Agent McGee." The director's voice caused him to jump and he glanced up to see her standing on the walkway over the bullpen, her hands gripping the railing. Tim felt his mouth go dry at the ominous expression on her face. "My office, please," Director Shepard said before turning away. His heart starting to race, McGee quickly left his desk and climbed the stairs, suddenly terrified that he had screwed something up. What had he done wrong? He'd followed all of Tony's procedures to the letter!

"Ma'am," he said as he stepped into her office. She gestured for him to shut the door.

"Have a seat, McGee," Shepard said once he obeyed. "We need to have a talk." Her eyes narrowed slightly as she placed a thick folder on the top of her desk. "About Jeanne Benoit."

And Tim felt his stomach plunge to his feet.


	13. Things Fall Apart, 13: Eli

**A/N:** Time period is a couple of days before 4.09 "Twisted Sister."

The "Dana Stavi" referenced here is the Mossad agent in "Killing Ari" who both Tony and Ziva interact with at the pool - in the credits, the actress (Gloria Vatsis) is identified only as "Dana."

* * *

**Eli**

As the Director of Mossad, it was hard to impress Eli David, but his visitor from NCIS had somehow done exactly that.

Everything in Anthony DiNozzo's personnel jacket had painted him as a lazy, unrepentant womanizer who relied more on luck and his smile than any particular ability or talent. Until joining NCIS over five years earlier, DiNozzo had a string of short-lived jobs at various law enforcement agencies in America, none of which lasted longer than two years. Apart from his aborted athletic career, his time at college was remarkably uninspiring, although the ease in which he completed the police academy training regimen after the accident that ended his chance to enter professional sports was slightly encouraging. Ziva's discreet reports on him had, over the last year, become quite positive, but Eli had put that down to her romantic interest in DiNozzo, especially since she had a long history of unbelievably bad taste in sexual partners.

None of that, however, had prepared him for the sharp-eyed professional who had accompanied Michael Rivkin to Tel Aviv almost two months earlier.

Oh, many of the elements of DiNozzo's psychological profile remained intact – he covered his deep-rooted insecurities with inappropriate and sometimes childish gallows humor, and he certainly had an eye for the ladies though, according to Michael, an _eye _was as far as it seemed to go these days – but the intensity with which the NCIS special agent threw himself into the ongoing investigation was completely against everything Eli had prepared for. He should have expected it, however, since everything Anthony did seemed intended to prove that he _was _worthy of the respect afforded his rank. When Jennifer informed him that one of her best men would be tasked to uncovering what was rapidly turning into a global arms network, he had expected someone with more gravitas, someone like Ziva's direct superior in D.C., Jethro Gibbs, or perhaps Leon Vance, an old associate of Eli's from the later years of the Cold War.

And instead, she had sent DiNozzo.

At first, Eli was not sure if he should be amused or insulted that Shepard had sent his daughter's most recent lover to work alongside one of Ziva's former paramours, but the ease with which Anthony and Michael cooperated silently impressed him. Rivkin's reports were uniformly positive in regards to his temporary partner, and Eli was able to read between the lines to detect a growing respect in his officer for the NCIS agent. The two men had an easy rapport formed out of a shared bond that could only be called Ziva; both men had loved her and both men had been, according to Anthony in a comment clearly not intended to reach her father's ears, 'burned' by her.

Somehow, the director doubted his daughter would be amused.

But Eli certainly was.

"Dammit, I can't read this," Anthony was saying. He and Michael were bent over a table littered with case files from Mossad, NCIS, and Israel's internal security service, Shin Bet (as well as a half dozen other international intelligence or law enforcement agencies, not all of which were obtained through legal means), and neither seemed aware that Eli was quietly observing them from the doorway. DiNozzo pushed a thick binder into Rivkin's hands before turning his attention to the dry-erase board that had dozens of photographs taped to it. Under other circumstances, Eli knew that Michael would prefer a more high-tech approach, but DiNozzo had already displayed a superior talent for criminal investigation which Rivkin deferred to.

"It is in Hebrew," Michael stated as he scanned the document. His partner shot him a disgruntled look.

"Which is why I gave it to _you_," DiNozzo grumbled. "I can barely ask for directions to the bathroom in Hebrew. I sure as hell can't read an intelligence analysis." He tapped his finger on a blank section of the dry erase board in what appeared to be an entirely unconscious gesture.

"Dana was wondering if you were going to join us for drinks tonight," Rivkin asked calmly, smirking as he spoke. "She is very interested in seeing you again." Anthony grunted noncommittally, but continued to stare at the photos as if they would inexplicably give up their secrets. "She told me a wonderfully amusing story about you and a swimming pool," Rivkin added when his partner remained silent.

"Do you really want to go there, Michael?" DiNozzo asked softly. "That story doesn't have a particularly happy beginning _or _ending."

Eli tensed. Ari. DiNozzo was thinking about his traitorous son. Michael did not need to know the truth about that matter, not now and quite possibly not ever. Mossad must never learn about that, his greatest mistake, or how Ziva had acted on _his _instructions to neutralize her half-brother if he turned out to be the man Gibbs claimed he was.

"Do you have anything new?" he asked loudly, stepping into the room. Rivkin sprang to his feet but DiNozzo barely reacted.

"Depends," Anthony replied. "Do you want the bad news or the _really_ bad news?" Michael visibly paled at his partner's flippant response but Eli almost smiled. It was nice to work with someone for a change who did not soil themselves at the very mention of the name David. "We know that there's an international cartel of arms smugglers organized under this woman," DiNozzo said as he tapped a central photo so out of focus one could barely make out that it was of a Caucasian woman. Her hair was concealed by a thick scarf and immense sunglasses concealed much of her features.

"The GRU refers to her as _preezrachnee_," Rivkin identified, his Russian accent flawless. Anthony nodded.

"Our ghost," he agreed. "We don't have a name, a decent picture or any idea if she's actually Russian or not." He sighed. "She's like a Bond villain," DiNozzo said, "but without the cool island lair or white cat."

"So we have nothing," Eli said. "I had hoped for more."

"Until a month ago," Anthony retorted defensively, "we didn't even know this organization existed." He gestured toward the files on the table. "This is like trying to put a jigsaw puzzle together in the dark."

"He is correct, Director," Michael said deferentially. "Until we have more information, we have reached a dead stop."

"Dead end," DiNozzo corrected absently before glancing toward Rivkin. "Is screwing up English idioms required training in Mossad?" he asked wryly. "You're worse than Ziva."

"We have one name," Michael said, ignoring the comment. He took a step closer to the board and pointed to another photo. "La Grenouille should be our central focus at the moment," he argued.

"So says Director Shepard," Eli remarked. "For the moment, however," he said, pinning DiNozzo with an unblinking look, "she and I have decided you need to return to Rota for a time. Your absence has been noted and remarked upon by members of both NCIS and others."

"Yes, sir," Anthony said with a nod. "When do I fly out?"

"Tomorrow." Eli glanced once in Michael's direction. "I am sure that Officer Rivkin can handle the arrangements." He looked back to DiNozzo. "This is not yet over, Anthony," he said. "Take whatever files you need to find our … ghost." Without waiting for a response, Eli turned away and walked from the small conference room, pausing briefly when he heard the two men begin talking once more.

"Dana will be sad to see you leave, Tony," Michael said.

"I already told her," DiNozzo replied, "I'm really not interested at the moment."

"Because she reminds you of Ziva?"

"Will you just drop it?" Anthony sounded exasperated, frustrated and quite probably a little angry.

Nearly four hours later, Michael entered Eli's office, an expression of discomfort on his face. He had never hidden how much he disliked reporting on DiNozzo behind the NCIS agent's back, no matter the necessity. That he had an aversion to this entire process was exactly why Eli trusted him, however; Rivkin was too honest to lie.

"Dana was failing to attract Special Agent DiNozzo's interest when I left them at the bar, sir," Michael began without preamble. He was still speaking in English, an indication of how deeply the American had already influenced him. "I am convinced that Tony … that Special Agent DiNozzo is still emotionally attached to your daughter."

_"Sit down, Michael," _Eli ordered in Hebrew._ "Did you encourage Officer Stavi's pursuit of Anthony?"_

_"No, sir. I suspect she is drawn to him simply because he seems mostly uninterested."_

_"Because of Ziva," _Eli said. He shook his head; that girl was going to be the death of him someday. _"What is your opinion of him, Michael?"_ he asked. _"Your _honest _opinion."_

_"I like him," _Rivkin replied. _"He seems sloppy and undisciplined," _he continued after a moment of thought, _"but once you begin to understand his methodology, you realize he rarely does things without a purpose or a goal in mind."_ Frowning, Michael met Eli's eyes. _"His emotional attachment to Ziva could be a potential liability, however."_

_"Explain."_

_"He is angry at her," _Michael said calmly. _"I do not know the specifics, only that he is easily distracted by talk of her and our conversations almost always end up centered around her in some fashion." _Rivkin shrugged. _"Which has the result of making him even angrier at himself." _A wry smile crossed Michael's face. _"In short, sir," _he said, _"he is another victim of your daughter." _Eli sighed.

_"Once Anthony has returned to Rota," _he decided, _"I want you to go to Washington and find out from Ziva the nature of this relationship of theirs."_ Rivkin's eyebrows climbed. _"If Anthony is going to be of use to us," _Eli said calmly, _"he needs to be able to focus."_

_"Director," _Michael said, _"need I remind you that Ziva and I parted on less than amicable terms?"_

_"Then you should be discreet," _Eli replied. _"You are no good to me dead."_

_"Yes, sir," _Rivkin answered with a heavy sigh. He departed quickly, a disconsolate look on his face. One would have thought that he was being sent to his death. Of course, given the reports Officer Bashan had recently passed on concerning Ziva's fickle moods these days, Michael's concern may not be entirely unfounded.

The buzz of his phone drew Eli's attention and he glanced at the wall clock. Exactly on time.

_"Shalom, _Leon," he said into the receiver. "How are you doing, my friend?"

"Well enough, Eli," the deputy director of operations for NCIS said. "I'm calling about DiNozzo."

"He is returning to Rota in the morning," Eli revealed. "I must say," he added, "your assessment of him was completely wrong."

"Can we use him?" Vance asked. And, though his old friend could not see him, Eli nodded.

"Yes," he said, "I think we can."


	14. Things Fall Apart, 14: Jethro

**A/N:** Time period is immediately post 4.09 "Twisted Sister."

This chapter takes place mostly concurrently with the next one.

* * *

**Jethro**

His head hurt.

It was a combination of the residual effects of this morning's mild hangover and too little coffee during the day to take the edge off his caffeine addiction, but the dull throbbing at the back of his skull left Jethro in a foul mood as he rooted through his desk for his keys, all the while keeping a subtle eye on his current senior field agent. Today had been hard for McGee, in between discovering his sister could very well have been responsible for the death of a man to the stand-off with Director Shepard that had an underlying tension to it that Gibbs still didn't quite understand. To make matters worse, Ziva was absolutely furious with McGee because of 'Officer Lisa Dahan, the sultry Mossad liaison' character from _Deep Six_, and her relationship with 'Special Agent Tommy DiNardo,' no doubt because it struck so closely to the truth.

Gibbs couldn't help but to wonder, though, if she would be this upset were Tony actually present to tease McGee over the source material.

For his part, Jethro was both embarrassed and honored to be the subject of McGee's writing, as well as strangely proud at how good the actual story had been. Franks had picked it up for him while they were still in Mexico, and Gibbs had quickly recognized the name Thom E. Gemcity as an anagram for Timothy McGee. Reading the story had been odd, as if he were reading about his own life but through a cracked and distorted mirror. He recognized bits and pieces of several different cases from over the years scattered through the prose and tied together by a strangely effective narrative. If she were still alive, Shannon would have loved this book.

Jethro still wasn't sure what to say about the fact that none of his team seemed to have noticed he had a copy of _Deep Six _on his book shelf ever since he returned from Mexico. Were they really that oblivious? Or was it something else?

"I am done," Ziva announced sharply. She slammed her report down on McGee's desk and glared at him so fiercely that he visibly recoiled, before storming to her desk and retrieving her backpack. With another hot glare over her shoulder in Tim's direction, she stalked away and disappeared into the elevator.

"I think she's going to kill me," McGee said once she was gone. From her place at the Probie's Desk, Michelle Lee laughed.

"What did you expect?" she asked. "You just told the entire world that she was in love with DiNozzo. Can you imagine what her friends at Mossad are going to say about that?" Lee's eyes suddenly widened as she remembered that Gibbs was still present and she gave him one of her normal 'oh, God, please don't fire me' looks.

In response, Jethro grunted in agreement.

"It's _fiction_," Tim declared loudly. "DiNardo and Dahan are just _loosely _based on Tony and Ziva." He hunched over his desk when Gibbs snorted disdainfully. "Well," McGee muttered defensively, "it is."

"I'd be more worried about Jimmy right now," Michelle said hesitantly. Both Jethro and McGee glanced in her direction and she grimaced. "You _did _imply his character was a necrophiliac."

"No, I didn't!" McGee retorted before blinking and studying her. "Wait," he said. "You've already read it?" Lee nodded.

"When it first came out," she said. "You used too much passive voice when writing from McGregor's point of view," she added, "but the action scenes were really good."

"You read it," McGee repeated, "but didn't say anything?" Michelle nodded again. "Wonder how many other people here already knew about it," Tim muttered.

"I did," Gibbs declared. Keys in hand, he stood and headed toward the elevator, pausing just in front of McGee's desk. "Your sister has had a bad day," he pointed out. "Shouldn't you be with her?"

"She's over at Jeanne's until I get off work," McGee said, a flash of discomfort suddenly in his eyes. Without thinking, the young agent's eyes flickered up toward the director's office. Anger, guilt and discomfort washed across his face as he quickly returned his attention to the reports on his desk.

Jethro frowned.

Something had changed in the last few weeks in regards to McGee's relationship with his girlfriend, and Gibbs was convinced that Jenny was responsible based on the younger man's recent discomfort around the director. Almost overnight, Tim's nearly contagious happiness over his unexpected relationship with the Benoit girl had transformed into what could only be frustrated guilt. McGee was still emotionally invested in the relationship – probably more than he should have been in Jethro's admittedly cynical opinion – but with each day that passed, new stress lines appeared on the young man's face.

And somehow, it was all Jenny's fault.

His frank appraisal of McGee stretched out for a few seconds longer than Gibbs wanted it to, and Tim squirmed under his gaze, a flush climbing up the back of his neck. Jethro's frown deepened as he realized he didn't have the words that McGee needed to hear. Once again, Gibbs found himself lamenting Tony's departure – DiNozzo would know what to do, would be able to tease or harass or coax the truth out of Tim and then trick the younger man into coming up with a solution that made everyone happy. If necessary, Tony would even play the fool to make his junior partner feel better about the situation.

"My door," Jethro said softly, his voice pitched only for McGee's ears, "is always open if you need to talk." Tim stared at him with wide eyes before finally nodding slightly. There was less than a zero chance that he would actually show up at Gibbs' house for advice – Tony would, back before Mexico, back before the coma had changed everything between them – but the offer might actually get across the point that Jethro really wanted McGee to think about, that Gibbs knew something was amiss.

Recognizing that his continued presence would only make McGee even more uncomfortable, Jethro turned away and walked to the elevator. The door slid open before he could hit the button, revealing an incensed-looking Ziva and a dark-haired man Gibbs did not recognize. The stranger was her age and carried a secured briefcase. A visitors' badge was clipped to the breast pocket of his suit.

"Gibbs," Ziva said in greeting. She gestured briefly to her companion. "Officer Michael Rivkin, Mossad," she identified. "He is here to speak with Director Shepard."

"Special Agent Gibbs," the man said, offering his right hand. "I have heard many things about you."

"They're all true," Jethro said as he shook Rivkin's hand. He had a strong grip and the calluses on his fingers implied a field operative of some sort. From the way the man's eyes darted around, clearly calculating the location of various exits, he was certainly not a man who often rode a desk. _Metsada, _Gibbs decided. His stomach suddenly felt like a ball of ice – whenever anyone from Mossad other than Ziva turned up, things didn't go well.

"Even the bad things?" Rivkin asked with a wry smile. Beside him, Ziva tensed and Jethro knew exactly what, or more accurately who, she was thinking about: Ari.

"_Especially _the bad things," Gibbs said. Rivkin's smile faded as he glanced between the two. "I hope you're not here to try and take my agent away," Jethro said flatly.

"This has nothing to do with Officer David," the man said. "I am merely a courier with important information that Director Shepard has requested."

"Her office is upstairs," Ziva grumbled, her eyes dark as she glared at him. If looks could kill, Jethro decided, Officer Rivkin would have burst into flames. Stepping out of the way, Gibbs allowed the newcomer to get clear of the elevator, but caught Ziva's arm, preventing her from immediately following.

"Find out why he's really here," he instructed softly. Jethro's gut was twisting and snarling as he studied Rivkin; unless the man had thoroughly screwed the pooch somehow, he was too valuable an asset to be wasted on courier duties.

"I intend to," Ziva retorted harshly, pulling her arm free and stalking forward to join the waiting Rivkin who was watching their brief exchange with curiosity on his face. He quickly took a step back from David when she approached, inexplicably reminding Gibbs of how Tony had reacted when his teasing of her had gone too far. Jethro wasn't sure how Ziva was going to get the information from Rivkin and realized he honestly didn't care if she slept with the man or beat it out of him with her fists. Maybe this was exactly what she needed to get DiNozzo out of her system once and for all. She was always angry these days, as if she was perpetually PMSing, and it was starting to really get annoying.

As he stepped into the open elevator, he felt someone watching him and glanced back. Standing at the open doorway to her office, Jenny's eyes were locked on him, an unfathomable expression on her face. She gave him a slight nod before stepping forward to greet Officer Rivkin. They were too far away for Gibbs to make out what they were saying, but his mind raced nonetheless.

Tony. This had something to do with undercover operation Jenny had put DiNozzo on. With Mossad involved, it could get sticky and Jethro wasn't there to watch Tony's six.

And quite suddenly, he was very worried.


	15. Things Fall Apart, 15: Ziva

**A/N:** Time period is immediately post 4.09 "Twisted Sister."

This chapter takes place mostly concurrently with the previous one. I tried to avoid redoing some of the dialogue but couldn't come up with a way to do so.

A reminder: my take on the characters (especially Michael Rivkin) is nothing like the direction the showrunners are taking them (which IMO is straight into the crapper.)

* * *

**Ziva**

Her day had already been thoroughly ruined when she saw Michael Rivkin in the NCIS lobby.

There was no surprise on his face when she had approached, although Ziva was slightly pleased to sense a hint of concern. As a test, she let her right hand drift closer to where her service weapon was holstered at her side and Michael tensed, his body suddenly poised to dive for cover. She allowed a feral smile to cross her lips. After what Rivkin had done to her, he deserved every moment of fear she could cause. She _had _threatened to shoot him the next time she saw him, after all.

"Why are you here?" she demanded as she came to within a meter of him. He was dressed quite conservatively, wearing a suit and tie that made him look like a banker or lawyer, and was carrying a hardened briefcase. It was cuffed to his left hand and Ziva's eyes narrowed: Michael was _not _a courier.

_"I am here to deliver some documents to Director _Shepard_,"_ Michael said in Hebrew. The guards eyed him warily, despite the credentials he had already presented.

"In English," Ziva ordered before shifting her eyes to the two armed men studying Rivkin. "I will take it from here," she said.

"You'll need to sign him in," the senior of them – John Henderson, according to his nametag – stated. Ziva nodded and quickly scribbled her signature across the clipboard John offered.

"This way," she told Michael before pivoting on one foot and retracing her steps to the elevator. Once inside, she pressed the button for the bullpen and gave him a cautious look. He returned it without a hint of emotion on his face and Ziva felt her heart begin to race at what he could be here for.

_"I am not here to order you back,"_ Michael said and Ziva felt relief wash through her. He smiled as his eyes … wandered. _"You look well, Ziva,"_ he remarked, and the words sent a bolt of fury through her as memory of exactly _why _she had threatened to cause him bodily harm came to mind. Her eyes narrowed.

_"I have not rescinded my promise to shoot you,"_ she warned and Rivkin took a half step away from her. She wondered if he was aware of Brian Dempsey's fate in this very elevator. Yes, that had been an accident, but she could certainly replicate the scenario easily enough.

Gibbs' presence outside the elevator when the door opened caught her by surprise, and she silently cursed herself for the momentary lapse of awareness. The senior special agent's eyes instantly narrowed at he took in Michael's posture and Ziva could almost see the suspicions begin building in his face.

"Gibbs," she said quickly, hoping that he did not notice her own discomfort. She gestured to the bastard standing just behind and to the left of her. "Officer Michael Rivkin, Mossad," she said, hoping her dislike of the man was not too obvious. "He is here to speak with Director Shepard." Michael stepped forward, smiling as he offered his right hand.

"Special Agent Gibbs," he said. "I have heard many things about you."

"They're all true," Jethro replied as he shook Rivkin's hand. They silently studied one another for a heartbeat, inexplicably reminding Ziva of a pair of hostile dogs circling one another in search of a weakness. The only way they could have been more obvious was if they whipped out their respective penises and compared sizes. _Men, _Ziva thought with mild disgust.

"Even the bad things?" Rivkin asked with a wry smile.

Ziva instantly tensed as she recognized what Michael had to be referring to. As far as she knew, the only other person in Mossad who knew the truth about Ari's death was her father. The rest of the community had been informed of the cover story: Gibbs had killed her half-brother under suspicious circumstances. One of the ostensible reasons for her liaison position was to 'discover' the truth of Ari's death.

"_Especially _the bad things," Gibbs growled, his eyes quickly darting to meet Ziva's. Inwardly, she groaned: the old Jethro Gibbs from before the explosion and his Mexican vacation would not have made a mistake like that, especially in front of someone as well trained as Michael. Rivkin's smile faded and he glanced between the two, exactly as she feared. "I hope you're not here to try and take my agent away," Gibbs said, a warning in his voice.

"This has nothing to do with Officer David," Michael said. "I am merely a courier with important information that Director Shepard has requested." Veiled hostility dripped off his words – Ari and Michael had been friends once, though that friendship had waned over the years, especially after Haswari went undercover in Hamas – but Ziva doubted Gibbs recognized it. For that matter, if she had not known Michael for as long as she had, she suspected that she would not have sensed it either. Anger flared.

"Her office is upstairs," Ziva said coldly. Both men appeared to recognize their cues – Gibbs backed out of the way and Michael headed toward the stairwell. Before she could take two steps, Ziva felt Gibbs' hand wrap around her arm.

"Find out why he's really here," he ordered unnecessarily and she gave him an incredulous look. There were few things Ziva hated more than being treated like an amateur and, since his return from Mexico, Gibbs had done so more than once.

"I intend to," she snapped as she pulled her arm free. Rivkin wisely said nothing as he preceded her up the stairs where Jenny was already waiting. Michael smiled.

"Director Shepard," he said in greeting. Jenny returned the friendly smile.

"Michael," she said before shifting her attention to Ziva. "Thank you, Officer David," she said calmly, "that will be all."

Ziva blinked.

"As Mossad liaison," she quickly pointed out, "I should be present when you interface with Officer Rivkin."

"I've already coordinated with Director David about this," Jenny said, smiling tightly though it did not touch her eyes. "So thank you, but that will be all."

And a moment later, she was inside her office with Michael, the door firmly shut. From her desk, Cynthia gave Ziva a helpless shrug and returned her attention to the paperwork in front of her.

Frustrated, Ziva retreated to the elevator, noting without surprise that Gibbs had already departed but that Tim was still ensconced behind his computer. For a moment, she contemplated swooping down to harass him for the absurdities he had no doubt written about in this book of his, but memory of his sister's comments – 'You must be Officer Lisa, but where's Agent Tommy?' – caused her to wince as her heart ached.

_He's in Rota, _Ziva lamented as she made her way to the elevator, _and wants nothing to do with me anymore_.

Her feet carried her to the relatively empty gym without much conscious thought and, once she had changed into her exercise clothes, Ziva threw herself at the heavy bag in the corner with a ferocity that surprised even her. She lost herself in the rhythmic strikes – punches, kicks, elbow smashes, shin strikes – that caused the bag to tremble and shake. And as she worked out her aggressions in this place of relative safety, her mind wandered.

The last five months since Tony's departure had been abysmal. The dry spell she'd complained to McGee about several weeks earlier seemed to have no end in sight and every date she had gone on in the last month had ended in catastrophe. Even worse, the few one night stands she had in that time were so monumentally unsatisfying that she had seriously considered breaking limbs in retaliation afterward. Neither of the two men had seemed interested in anything but their own short-lived pleasure – and it had been _decidedly _brief – which inevitably led to her comparing them to Tony.

And in every single category, Anthony DiNozzo won, hands down.

Work also had become interminable. Seeing the other members of her immediate circle – _including _Ducky, for God's sake – engaged in relatively healthy relationships of the intimate variety while she could not get a decent man to look at her twice without setting her hair on fire was slowly driving her insane. Ziva knew she was attractive, had in fact used her looks on numerous occasions to accomplish missions, so she could not understand why men were suddenly staying clear of her. Abby had theorized it was a psychic thing, that Ziva was emitting 'crazy woman vibes' (whatever that meant) that all men seemed capable of detecting. These 'vibes' had apparently been there since Tony left…

The sensation of being watched caused her to tense, and Ziva's already foul mood soured even more once she identified the person observing her. She wondered if she could exchange his face for the heavy bag she was pummeling into submission.

_"I suspected that I would find you here,"_ Michael said in Hebrew as he slowly crossed the gym. He was still wearing the suit, but had removed the jacket and was no longer carrying the briefcase. _"You have never liked being told 'no,' especially by someone in authority."_

_"I am in no mood to deal with you tonight, Michael," _Ziva snapped. She brandished one of her hands, only slightly surprised to see that it was bloody from the punishment she had been meting out to herself. Rivkin sighed.

_"I have already apologized, Ziva," _he said but recoiled at her hot glare.

_"How _is _Dana?" _she asked.

_"We are no longer together," _Michael admitted. He took a seat on a nearby weight bench that already held her gym bag. Ziva shot him a glance before resuming her furious onslaught against the heavy bag.

_"Did you cheat on her too?" _she asked.

_"Actually," _Rivkin said, _"I left her. Irreconcilable differences."_ He shrugged as if he was unaffected by this revelation, but Ziva was not fooled. _"Her desire to sleep with every man in Israel fundamentally conflicted with _my_ desire for marriage."_

_"Why are you really here, Michael?" _Ziva asked a long moment later. She stepped back from the bag and caught the water bottle he tossed to her. _"It is not to carry papers to Jenny."_

_"In part," _Rivkin said, _"it is. I have been working with NCIS in Europe and the Middle East for the last few months and needed to brief Director Shepard on our results."_ Ziva frowned.

_"_You _have been working with NCIS?" _she asked. Should that not be _her _job? Why was she just now learning this? Was she no longer trusted?

_"Yes," _he replied. _"With an Agent _DiNozzo_."_

Ziva's breath caught.

"Tony?" she said with surprise stamped on her face and she abandoned the bag entirely. _"You were working with _Tony?"

Almost the moment the words left her lips, Ziva could see the trap Michael had so cleverly laid for her. He was too skilled to not notice the eagerness in her voice or her body language when she used Tony's name, and she would not have been surprised if he had waited until she had already worn herself to near exhaustion before speaking. Her stomach plunged and, for a heartbeat, she once more felt a flash of fear that Mossad might still deem Tony a threat. Michael's reaction, however, gave her the insight she needed: he did not move from where he sat and simply watched her.

_"Ah," _Ziva said a moment later. _"My father sent you." _She grabbed her towel and began wiping the blood from her knuckles. _"Let me guess," _she ventured, _"he wants to know if I was sleeping with _Tony."

_"Were you?" _Michael asked. He flashed a grin as she glared at him. _"I was given instructions," _he admitted, _"to find out the nature of your relationship with Special Agent _DiNozzo."

_"So you thought you would just ask me outright?"_ Rivkin nodded. _"Then, yes," _Ziva said, _"I was involved with him before he left."_ She exhaled bitterly before sliding to the floor with her back to the wall. _"But there is no relationship now," _she said. _"He left and does not return my calls. Not even to listen to my apologies."_

_"Now you know how that feels," _Michael muttered.

_"You slept with Dana," _Ziva accused angrily, _"while _we_ were together."_ She tried not to think about the other memories brought to the mind by her discovery of the incident, how a mere two days prior to it she was trapped in a cargo container with Tony, freezing and trying to ignore how good her partner smelled in such enclosed quarters. _"You deserve no second chances," _she growled.

_"But you do?" _he asked. He stood. _"I will tell your father what you have told me," _he said, _"and that I do not believe Special Agent _DiNozzo _has any undue influence upon you or your duties." _Michael turned to go.

_"Wait!" _Ziva hissed. She quickly pushed herself to her feet. _"Will you see him again?" _she asked.

_"When I return to Tel Aviv to report," _Michael said with a confused expression on his face. Ziva shook her head.

_"No, not Papa. _Tony. _Will you see him again?"_

_"You know I cannot tell you that," _Rivkin replied. It was as good an admission that yes, he would be working alongside Tony again. Hope reignited within Ziva's chest.

_"If you see him again," _she said, _"could you tell him to please call me?"_ It sounded desperate, even to her ears, but she no longer cared. _"Please, Michael. You owe me."_

_"I do," _he admitted before sighing heavily. _"I cannot promise you anything, Ziva," _he said, _"but I will try." _His eyes suddenly danced with mirth. _"I must warn you, though," _Michael continued, _"the last time I saw him, Dana was pursuing him rather intently."_ Ziva frowned at the mental image, though she could not blame Tony if he slept with her old friend. Even if it made her wish to rip Officer Stavi's spleen out through her nostrils. With a spoon.

_"Please, Michael," _she repeated. _"Just pass on my message to him." _Rivkin studied her for a moment, a smile crinkling his eyes and delight causing his face to light up.

_"Can it be?" _he asked mockingly. _"Has the impossible happened? Has someone managed to tame the heartless Ziva David?"_ He turned away, laughing at her dark expression.

And Ziva wondered if she could get away with using the water bottle to kill him.


	16. Things Fall Apart, 16: Tony

**A/N:**This chapter takes place mostly concurrently with the previous two.

Fair warning: This chapter is pretty violent.

And to all of you disturbed by the Benoit/McGee thing ... you're _supposed _to be disturbed by it. It's a train wreck waiting to happen and the only person who doesn't realize that is the Tadpole herself...

* * *

**Tony**

It was another glorious day in Rota.

The sky was a pure, cloudless blue so intense that determining where the ocean ended and the horizon began was nearly impossible. Dozens of kiteboards dotted the ocean bay as the visitors enjoyed their leisure time in the unseasonably warm late-autumn weather. A warm breeze carrying the sharp tang of salt caressed his face, causing his hair to stir slightly which had the benefit of reminding him he needed to visit the barber. Laughter echoed across the beach called Punta Candor as natives and tourists alike frolicked in the sand or the surf. On any other day, Tony would have been enjoying himself, would have been admiring the number of lovely women in tiny bikinis all around him, many of whom were casting lecherous looks in his direction.

Today, however, he was too busy trying to stay alive.

It was not immediately obvious that his life was in danger to civilians, but Tony could feel the seconds slowly ticking away before his pursuers struck. There were six of them, scattered around him in a vague circle and carefully closing in on his position. Dressed only in shorts and an unbuttoned shirt, without a weapon larger than the knife in his belt (rule number nine) – he _had _come to look at the ocean for relaxation, after all – DiNozzo had chosen the beach carefully once he realized he was being hunted; here, with the number of people present, jumping him en masse would draw too much attention, especially from any of the more heroic vacationers who might want to lend a hand. The proximity of the Naval Station increased the danger for them; Marines with more balls than sense were all over the place and many wouldn't hesitate to throw themselves into a lopsided fight simply out of a sense of fair play.

More importantly, though, his current location allowed DiNozzo to actually identify the pursuers; six men in suits always stood out on a beach.

Angling sharply toward a small flagstone pathway leading away from the beach proper, Tony fought back a grin at how awkwardly the Suits tried to react. Their shoes, perfect for walking on streets, were less than useless in the loose sand, and he could see at least two of the men pause to remove their footwear. It wasn't much, but any way he could reduce the numbers for even a few seconds might be the edge he needed.

The moment his feet hit the concrete, DiNozzo picked up the pace, fast-walking toward the nearest building – it was a bar, he realized without much surprise; they were all over this part of the city, being so close to the Naval Station. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed two of the pursuers move quickly to cut him off, the unsightly bulges under their arms obviously firearms of some sort. They wanted him alive.

_Of course they do, _Tony realized. The arms trafficking organization he and Michael had been focusing on uncovering in the last few months would desperately want to know just how much he – and by default, NCIS or Mossad – knew about them. That gave him the advantage in this fight since he wasn't hampered by a need to necessarily take them alive if it got too hairy. Silently, he thanked both Ziva and Michael for their respective insistence that he take Krav Maga training; to the former, it had turned into particularly violent but strangely erotic foreplay during the weeks in which Gibbs was gone, but to the latter, it had been part of the requirements for working alongside Rivkin in the field.

Recognizing that he wouldn't be able to make it to the bar, Tony abruptly changed directions and threw himself forward into a sprint. Abandoning his sandals, he darted toward a narrow alleyway. Tiny rocks dug into the soles of his feet painfully, but he ignored the sensations as he heard the rhythmic footfalls and heavy breathing behind him. A rickety-looking door set in one side of the alley beckoned and Tony slammed into it with the full force of his weight. Wood splintered as the hinges on the door gave, and he fell into the room just beyond, rolling to his feet as quickly as he could manage.

The first of the pursuers appeared in the doorway, face red from exertion and the smell of tobacco thick around him. His hand darted into his jacket and Tony sprang forward, slamming his fist not into the man's florid face but rather into the wrist of the hand seeking the holstered firearm. The man yelped, but DiNozzo struck again before his opponent could react, this time with a brutal knee strike to the testicles that dropped the man to the floor with a strangled gasp.

Tony didn't bother trying to recover the man's firearm as he rapidly backpedalled into the small room, pulling the knife free from his belt as he did. A double-sided, serrated blade that was probably sharper than it needed to be, it had been a gift from Ziva several weeks before Gibbs' return, and the comforting feel of the weapon in his hand eased DiNozzo's spiraling worry about his situation. He would have one chance to get out of this alive, one opportunity to escape intact, and it all depended on him causing enough of a ruckus that the local police were summoned.

"Ve have you surrounded, Agent DiNozzo," a heavily accented voice announced from outside the small building. He sounded Russian and Tony made another mental note to look into learning that language if he managed to walk away from this. Glancing around the room, DiNozzo grimaced at the lack of exits or sturdy material that would work as a weapon. He flattened himself against the wall next to the doorway and shot a quick glance out of the building.

There were only four of them in his admittedly tiny field of view, not including the smoker on the floor now beginning to recover, which left one unaccounted for. Tony winced as he realized at how bad his situation was. Five armed thugs, one knife to his name and with only moderate personal combat skills. These sorts of things never seemed to happen to James Bond.

"If you come out now," the speaker said, "ve vill not harm you." He pronounced his w's like v's, sounding so very much like a bad actor in an eighties action flick that it was almost surreal. DiNozzo grinned as a thought occurred: when in doubt, confuse the hell out of them.

"What we've got here," he quoted loudly from _Cool Hand Luke_, "is a failure to communicate." He kicked out, smashing his shin against the side of Smoker's jaw. It hurt – a_ lot_ – but caused the recovering thug to reel back, his head bouncing off the side of the doorjam. The man's eyes rolled back and he slumped to the side.

Far more important, though, was how the man's firearm, mostly freed from the holster already, clattered to the floor next to Tony's feet.

Everything became a blur after that as the attackers suddenly realized he was armed. Later, DiNozzo would be able to remember it only in flashes, as if they were photographs or video stills from a movie. He could recall having to stab the second man through the doorway with Ziva's knife, could remember feeling the hot gush of blood as the blade nicked an artery. The pistol fit his hand perfectly, and had less kick to it than he was accustomed to when he shot a third man almost point-blank in the face. Crimson sprayed across his face as the bullet punched through bone, flesh and brain, but Tony didn't have time to even think about how it instantly brought Kate to mind as the other two men opened up with their pistols, forcing him to duck back into the building to avoid getting hit by their wild shots. He crouched, waited for a pause in their shooting and pushed himself back out, instinctively aiming the weapon at the first hostile he could see. The man stood there stupidly, highlighted against the clear blue sky, as he reloaded his pistol. Their eyes met for a single, extended moment that seemed to stretch out for an eternity.

And then, Tony pulled the trigger.

_That's four, _DiNozzo reflected as he quickly retrieved his knife and fumbled for replacement magazines from the corpses. In the distance, he could hear the wail of sirens – he still wasn't able to reconcile the differences between American and European police sirens – and started to force himself to his feet when a sharp stab of pain lanced through his left leg. Tony heaved a sigh of relief that it was little more than a graze, but even that would sting for hours.

"Put down your veapon." The voice came from behind him, from the end of the alleyway he _hadn't _cleared, and Tony froze. _Shit, _he thought as he felt the cold barrel of a gun suddenly press up against the back of his head. _Stupid sloppy amateur! _Half-crouching, his leg on fire, he knew he was in no position to fight like this, so he carefully lowered the pistol to the ground. The knife he kept, though he carefully rolled it in his hand to keep it concealed from view while desperately praying the man hadn't seen him retrieve it. "Stand up," the voice ordered. "No sudden moves, Agent DiNozzo."

"You know my name," Tony said with a forced grin as he slowly rose to his feet, "but I didn't catch yours."

"Nor vill you," the man said. He pressed the pistol into the small of DiNozzo's back. "You have cost my employers a great deal of money."

"All part of job description, _Ivan_," Tony remarked wryly. His eyes darted for some way out of this predicament.

"Move," the Russian ordered, once more digging the gun into DiNozzo's back. "There is a truck vaiting for us," he continued. "You vill get into it and not give us any more trouble. Ve have many questions ve vish to ask you."

"Do you expect me to talk?" DiNozzo asked in his best Connery impression. In a dusty window, he could see their reflection and drew in a careful breath. The Russian glanced behind them, no doubt to make sure they were still alone.

And Tony acted.

He pivoted in place instantly, stabbing the blade of the knife into the Russian's neck with as much force as he could manage. Staggered by the unexpected attack and already losing blood, 'Ivan' instinctively squeezed the trigger of his pistol. The round tore through the fleshy part of Tony's left leg which was _already _wounded, but DiNozzo barely noticed as adrenaline coursed through his veins. He grabbed the Russian's wrist with both hands and aimed it away from his body. The pistol boomed a second time, the bullet slamming into the far wall with an explosion of plaster, and Tony kicked _hard _into Ivan's leg. With a sickening crunch, the Russian's knee crumpled and he shrieked in agony before half-falling. Pulling the pistol out of the man's hand, Tony smacked it across the back of 'Ivan's' head.

_That's five, _he realized as he quickly pulled his knife free, wincing at the spreading pool of blood around the man. The urge to vomit nearly overwhelmed him – he was a cop, dammit, not a spy! – but he swallowed the bile threatening to spill up from his stomach and limped toward the alley's entrance.

A pair of tiny cars bearing the seal of _Cuerpo Nacional de Policía, _Spain's national police force, skidded to a halt just outside the bar and the quartet of gendarmes spilled out of the vehicles like clowns at a circus. Tony was about to call out to them, to heft his NCIS badge, when he caught sight of the sixth man who had been trying to kill him. He was talking to one of the police officers and DiNozzo could see money change hands.

"Well this just keeps getting better and better," Tony growled before turning on his heel and casually walking in the opposite direction. He pulled his already bloody shirt off as he did and quickly wiped the worst of the crimson stain from his face and hands. Dropping the now soaked garment into the nearest trash receptacle, he limped toward the beach, discreetly grabbing an unattended shirt from the gear of a dozing vacationer. Another stop along the way allowed him to obtain a cell phone that had been carelessly dropped in the owner's mad rush to see what the commotion was about.

And twenty minutes later, he was in the back seat of Paula Cassidy's car as she weaved through the streets of Rota.

"What the hell did you get involved in, Tony?" she demanded as she pulled into a mostly abandoned parking lot. Her eyes were wide and she was paler than normal. DiNozzo gave her a grin as he finished tying off the makeshift bandage wrapped around his leg. The wound wasn't as bad as he'd feared – the bullet looked to be low caliber, so it didn't do a whole lot of damage and just _felt _like it had bored a bloody hole through his leg. If he needed to, he could run. Hopefully.

"The less you know," he said, "the better." She glowered, but Tony had grown to expect that. While he was, on paper, the team leader of NCIS Rota, in actuality, Paula was in charge until this undercover operation was complete at which point she would have her pick of assignments. She knew he was on an extensive deep-cover operation approved by the SecNav himself, but the specifics remained classified for her safety and his. "I need you to make a phone call for me," Tony said, "and it needs to be off the grid."

"Wonderful," she groused. "Now I'm your damned receptionist." She pinned him with another glare that almost – _almost _– hid her worry about his injuries. "If it's the David woman in D.C. who keeps calling or the Stavi one in Tel Aviv, you can call them your own damned self." Tony winced at the utterance of both names. Mention of Ziva still caused all sorts of unresolved emotions to surface and Dana … well, calling out another woman's name while having sex with a trained Mossad officer in Tel Aviv during a drunken one-night stand certainly hadn't been his best moment, especially when she _knew _the other woman. "Honestly, DiNozzo," Paula muttered halfheartedly in what seemed like an attempt not to think about the bullet wound in his leg, "it'd be safer for everyone if you'd just keep it in your damned pants."

"But not as much fun," he replied through clenched teeth. "I need you to get in contact with an Officer Michael Rivkin with Mossad." DiNozzo grimaced as the fire in his leg started to get worse; he was going to need painkillers and they never sat well with him. "Tell him that the ghost tried to make a play for me and I need extraction."

"Tony…" Paula gave him a worried look and DiNozzo flashed her a grin that both of them could tell was faked.

"'Tis only a flesh wound," he said in his best faux-British accent. "I've cut myself worse shaving." He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, knowing that Paula would look out for him. The adrenaline high he'd been riding since the beach was rapidly vanishing, leaving behind a crippling exhaustion and a fierce agony in his leg that was almost too much to handle.

A moment later, he had passed out.


	17. Things Fall Apart, 17: Tim

**A/N:** This chapter takes place shortly after 4x11 "Driven." I shuffled around some of the stuff in the timeline.

* * *

**Tim**

The bar was already crowded when he arrived.

Pausing at the doorway, Tim quickly scanned for his dinner companion but wasn't able to find her. He shrugged – Abby had warned him that she might be late – and quickly checked his phone for any missed calls. For a moment, he contemplated giving her a call before deciding against it; she'd already accused him of being in full-on crazy overprotective brother mode after her close encounter with OTTO earlier today and he could only imagine how she would react if he called her right now.

Several of the regulars gave him welcoming nods as he walked slowly toward the wall of honor directly across from the main entrance. Covered with dozens of photo identifications of law enforcement officers that had fallen in the line of duty, it was a depressing thing to stare at, but McGee couldn't tear his eyes away from it. Instinctively, he placed his fingers on the smiling image of Kate. He preferred to think of her like this, with the sparkle in her eyes and no bullet hole in her forehead. Tony had once joked about replacing this photo with one he'd acquired of Kate from her college years, something about her and a wet tee shirt contest, but the muted pain in DiNozzo's eyes had clued Tim in that it was an idle threat.

Directly next to Kate's photo was one of Chris Pacci, and once again, McGee felt a rush of misplaced guilt; there hadn't been anything he could have done to save Pacci's life – now, years later, Tim could look back at the mistakes he'd made and wince at just how green he'd been – but he still wondered if there couldn't have been _something _he could have done.

"Hey," Abby said as she joined him. She was alone for once, with no sign of her boyfriend, Marty, and McGee heaved a soft sigh of relief. Jeanne was on the night shift for the next few weeks, so he was flying solo and had no desire to be a fifth wheel.

"Hey," he repeated, dropping his fingers. Abby cocked her head as she looked at the photo.

"Hard to believe she's been gone for over a year," she murmured. "Do you still think about her?"

"Not as much as I used to," Tim admitted sadly. "Did you know," he asked a moment later, "that Tony had a message on his answering machine from her he refused to delete?" Abby nodded.

"So he wouldn't forget what she sounded like," she said with a smile. "That was my idea, actually." Abruptly, she turned away from the photo. "I need alcohol," Abby said, her eyes blinking rapidly. "You're buying."

"Of course I am," McGee agreed. He gave Kate's photo one last glance before heading to the bar to place the order. Abby had already vanished from sight when he received the pitcher and glasses, so Tim spent a few moments trying to track her down, finally locating her in a booth near the back door. She was staring at the table in front of her with a vacant, distracted expression that just didn't seem to belong on her usually cheerful face.

"You only got two glasses?" she asked absently when he slid into the booth across from her. McGee's eyes widened.

"Is Ziva actually coming?" he asked, not quite able to hide his trepidation. Abby blinked before grinning.

"Still afraid she's going to kill you for the book?"

"Yes," Tim said simply. He filled a glass and offered it to her. "You saw how she was in that stupid sexual harassment thing today." Tim shivered at the memory.

"Is it appropriate," Ziva had asked, an edge in her voice that was sharper than any razor and her gimlet eyes locked on him, "for someone to write a book _clearly _based on co-workers and make a number of _unfounded_ assumptions about personal relationships, assumptions that could _potentially_ cause employment problems based on them?" Everyone in the room but the seminar lady had known what she was talking about, and even Gibbs gave him a sympathetic look. And when Palmer joined the discussion – who knew the autopsy gremlin could look so intimidating? – McGee had prayed for the earth to open up and swallow him whole. He had nearly cheered aloud when the MCRT was called out to investigate Lieutenant Seabrook's death and then felt utterly disgusted at himself for being happy that someone had died.

"I've already apologized to her a dozen times," Tim continued with a sour look, "but she just won't let this go." McGee sighed. "I don't see why she's so upset. I mean, she _was _sleeping with Tony, right?"

"That's not the point, Tim." Abby shook her head before sipping her beer. "It's a constant reminder of how badly she screwed up and chased him away." McGee frowned – he hadn't thought about it like that. "No girlfriend tonight?" Abby asked, glancing around. Tim shrugged and tried not to think about Jeanne. Thoughts about her always led to this … undercover operation that the director had strong-armed him into undertaking.

"Had to work," he replied quickly, raising his own glass to his lips. "Marty?"

"Had to work," Abby repeated with another smile. "Were you ever planning on telling me about the book?" she asked a moment later. Tim sighed.

"I tried," he admitted, "but none of you took me seriously." McGee chuckled. "Tony laughed at me-"

"Which," Abby said with a grin of her own, "is why poor Agent Tommy suffered so much in _Deep Six, _right?"

"He got the girl in the end!" Tim argued before frowning. "Have you heard anything from him?"

"No," Abby replied cautiously. She quickly looked away when he glanced at her, and McGee immediately recognized that she was hiding something. He smiled.

"You know," he said, "for someone who could kill me and leave no forensic evidence, you really suck when it comes to hiding things." Abby gave him a wide-eyed look before returning his grin.

"I do," she agreed. "I really do." Draining her glass, she pushed it toward him with an unspoken demand for a refill. Tim obeyed. "How long has Tony been gone?" she asked.

"Almost six months?" McGee guessed. Abby nodded.

"Then why was Paula Cassidy relocated to Rota at the same time?" Tim frowned; that didn't make any sense. Those two were nearly equal in rank. "And why has Tony only been in Spain for a little over two weeks total?"

"You've been snooping, haven't you?" McGee asked. Abby grinned.

"Well, I've needed _something _to do when I wasn't listening to Ziva mope and whine about how Tony leaving was all her fault." It was such a ridiculous-sounding notion that Tim had to laugh out loud. Abby joined him a moment later, and they spent several minutes giggling or trying to avoid looking at one another lest it cause another round of hysterical laughter.

Tim's phone buzzed as their giggling fit died down and he glanced at it, hoping against hope that it wasn't Gibbs calling them in for an investigation. His stomach clenched at the name displayed on the caller id: Jennifer Shepard. _Not now!_

"McGee," he answered, gritting his teeth and hoping that Abby wouldn't notice. From the way that her eyes narrowed, however, he knew that she had.

"We need to talk," the director said. "My office, one hour." She hung up before he could respond.

"Something wrong?" Abby asked. Tim forced a smile on his face.

"I guess I screwed up some paperwork," he lied, hating himself for having to do it. Abby was his best friend and she more than anyone else deserved the truth. The director's orders had been clear, though: _no one _could know that his unexpected relationship with Jeanne had also become an intelligence gathering mission. McGee still wasn't sure how he'd been talked into this nightmare – logically, it just made no sense. If Jeanne's father really _was _this La Grenouille character the director was trying to take down, then he would be able to find out that Tim worked for NCIS, wouldn't he? Hell, McGee hadn't bothered concealing that fact from Jeanne once they started dating and she'd been okay with it even though her cheating ex-fiancé was a LEO.

"Uh, huh," Abby said after a moment of consideration. She was frowning again. "And Gibbs didn't notice?"

"Guess not," McGee said. Suddenly, he snickered as a thought occurred to him. When Abby gave him a look, he shrugged. "If Tony was here," he remarked with a grin, "do you know what he'd say?" Abby's face lit up with a grin.

"That maybe the boss was stickin' it to the Mann?" she asked with a delighted laugh. Tim almost choked on his beer.

"Don't do that!" he told her before setting the glass on the table. "I've really got to go see what the director wants," he said. Abby nodded.

"Go," she ordered. "I'll call Ziva and have her join me." Her smile turned evil. "Then I can tease her about how your next book will have Officer Lisa pining away for the dashing Agent Tommy after she left him at the altar."

"Are you _trying _to get me killed?" Tim asked as he levered himself out of the booth, pulling his wallet free as he did. Abby's eyes widened when he tossed a fifty on the table. "I still owe you for today," McGee said softly. "The least I can do is buy your drinks."

"It wasn't your fault, Tim," Abby said of her near death experience. McGee forced a smile on his face, as if he believed her, but the sick churning in his stomach reminded him of just how close she had come to dying with him mere inches away, utterly oblivious to the danger. If Gibbs hadn't shown up when he did…

"Stop it," Abby ordered. "I'm fine, Tim." She flicked her hand at him, a clear gesture to leave. "So shoo," she said. "Go take care of your business with the director." She pulled out her cell and hit a speed dial number. "Ziva!" she almost shouted into the phone. "I have beer! And Tim's money! At the usual place!" Nodding at what whatever the Israeli woman was saying, she again flicked her hand at McGee. "Okay, I'll see you in five!"

"Call me if the two of you need a ride home," Tim instructed as he headed toward the exit. He made a mental note to swing back by the bar once he was done with the director.

"I have another assignment for you," Director Shepard said the moment he stepped into her office. "How's your singing voice?"

And suddenly, Tim wished he hadn't answered his damned phone.


	18. Things Fall Apart, 18: Tony

**A/N:** This chapter takes place mostly concurrently with the previous one. A little surprised at how poorly the previous chapter seemed to have gone over though. The 200+ Story Alerts are nice, but Reviews would be nice to give me an idea of what I'm doing right & what I'm doing wrong!

And it's probably a good thing I have a bunch of chapters already written because I thought _Legends Part 2 _was pretty damned mediocre. I miss the days when the characters actually seemed to _like _each other or the show was actually fun & interesting to watch (instead of this tripe that Brennan is hyping as good.) I'm _trying _to keep the Muse interested in this story, but at the rate the series is going, they're doing a damned good job at killing off any and all inspiration. At the moment, I _**do not **_intend to watch season 7 of NCIS unless they manage a serious turnaround from the utter crap the series has become this year.

* * *

**Tony**

With a jolt, Tony snapped awake.

The first thing he became aware was his location – the steady hum of tires on pavement and rumbling growl of a high-end performance engine was his first clue that he was in a car – and he rapidly blinked away the last vestiges of unconsciousness. His left leg was expertly wrapped with field bandages and the shirt he was wearing was certainly not the one he had been wearing when he passed out. Even his shorts were different, though he could feel the reassuring weight of Ziva's knife secured to his belt.

"It is about time you woke," Michael Rivkin announced from the driver's seat. The Mossad officer was dressed similarly to Tony and was wearing dark sunglasses. Partially concealed from sight between Michael and the door was a pistol – a Jericho 941, if DiNozzo wasn't mistaken.

"I'm in a car," Tony said stupidly as he tried to shake off the dull haze his brain seemed wrapped in. His leg still ached, but no longer felt like someone had taken a blowtorch to it. "How did I get in a car?"

"I put you in it," Rivkin replied. He gave Tony a quick, concerned glance. "You were awake at the time," he said, "and flirting with Agent Cassidy."

"You'd think I'd remember that part," DiNozzo muttered as he gave their surroundings a quick look. "Did somebody feed me painkillers?" he asked. Michael nodded. "Well," Tony said, "that explains it. I get a little loopy when I'm on drugs."

"That is certainly one way to put it," Michael said with a smirk.

"Where are we?" Tony asked as a road sign flashed by. It wasn't in Spanish.

"Just outside Toulouse, France," Rivkin answered. He glanced quickly at the rearview mirror and frowned. "Did you know you talk in your sleep?" he asked. DiNozzo winced.

"Only when I'm on opiates," he muttered. "Say anything interesting?" The smile his companion flashed was fleeting but amused.

"Not unless you want to tell me who 'sweet cheeks' is," Michael said. "You mentioned her a number of times." Tony grunted before running his hands through his hair.

"How long have I been out?" he asked.

"We have been on the road for fifteen hours," Rivkin said, "and you were only semi-conscious when we left Rota." Again, he glanced briefly at the mirror. "Before that," he continued, "I do not know." He gestured to the glove compartment. "There is a sidearm in there for you," he said. "It is clean and loaded."

"Couldn't get me a Sig?" Tony grumbled as he extracted a second Jericho concealed within. It didn't feel right in his hand – he'd clearly gotten too accustomed to his old weapon – but just having a pistol made him feel a little better.

"We identified the sixth man," Michael said, ignoring the question. He reached behind them and pulled a manila folder out of the backseat. "Viggo Drantyev. Ex-KGB who specializes in wetworks. Mossad has utilized his skills in the past when we required plausible deniability, but he has been … off the market for several years now."

"How did you know there were six?" Tony asked hesitantly. He gave Rivkin a sidelong look, finally noting how exhausted the man appeared.

"Agent Cassidy debriefed me," Michael replied. "You were not implicated in any way. The police in Rota are calling it drug related." His lips tightened. "Do you trust Agent Cassidy?"

"With my life," DiNozzo replied without hesitation. "Why?"

"We have been followed since we left Rota." Tony grimaced.

"And you didn't think to lose them?" Rivkin shot him a sharp glare.

"Of course I did," he retorted, "but you were unconscious and if the situation turned into a firefight, I would have no backup." DiNozzo flinched at the unspoken criticism. Glancing around, he couldn't help but to notice the state of disrepair their Peugeot was in despite the sound of the engine.

"Shouldn't we be in a better car?" he asked in an attempt to lighten the mood. "A tricked-out Aston Martin, maybe?" Rivkin frowned.

"This is not one of your movies, Tony," he pointed out. DiNozzo grinned.

"I certainly hope not," he said, "'cause that would make me the Bond girl. And no offense, Mike, but I just don't like you like that." Rivkin barked out a sharp laugh before glancing once more at the rearview mirror.

"They do not look Russian," he mused softly. "Are you well enough to walk?" the Mossad officer asked a moment later. Tony shrugged.

"Won't know until I try," he replied. "I think so." Checking the Jericho one last time, he flipped through the folder on Drantyev. Most of the documents were in Hebrew or Cyrillic. "Do we have a plan?"

"Make for the _Gare de Toulouse-Matabiau_ rail station," Michael said. "There appear to be only two of them, so we go in separate directions to see which of us they follow."

"It'll be me," Tony grumbled. "It's _always _me." Rivkin chuckled softly and was silent for a long moment, allowing DiNozzo to study the French city they were entering the outskirts of. Without realizing it, he found himself comparing it to his mental rolodex of movies. Had he ever seen one set in this city? There was _Ronin _with De Niro … no, that was Paris and Nice. And the French scenes in the two Bourne movies had also been in Paris. But Toulouse…

"I saw Ziva a few days ago," Rivkin announced as they drew closer to the interior of the city. Tony flinched fractionally at the utterance of her name; ever since Michael revealed that he too had been briefly involved with her prior to her joining NCIS, they'd had an unspoken agreement to discuss her only when necessary. "She was asking about you."

"Really." Tony tried to hide the sudden flash of emotion the comment caused. He knew from Paula that Ziva had been trying to contact him ever since his 'reassignment' to Rota – Cassidy had threatened to remove parts of his anatomy if she had to answer another call from Officer David and make excuses why he couldn't come to the phone – but in the last few weeks, Ziva had stopped trying. A part of DiNozzo knew it was childish to keep acting like this, but the muted anger at how she'd treated him once Gibbs returned still simmered like a dying ember within his chest. Not to mention, he really _had _been too busy most of the time to actually respond.

"She asked me to pass on a message to you," Michael said. "She wants you to call her." He glanced at Tony as he slowed the Peugeot to make a turn. "Will you?"

"I dunno," Tony admitted. He wanted to ask Rivkin's opinion since Michael had known Ziva for a lot longer than DiNozzo had, but his ego rejected the notion at once: could he even look Michael in the eye if the man knew that Ziva had tossed him aside for Gibbs, a man over fifteen years older than him? Or even worse, would Rivkin laugh? "Maybe." He was silent for a moment. "How was she doing?" he finally asked.

"Well, I think," Michael replied. "She is certainly different from how I remember her," he said. "If someone in Tel Aviv touched her the way Agent Gibbs did," Rivkin continued with a wry smile, "I think she would have broken their arm."

Tony looked away.

"How far away is this rail station?" he asked in a clear change of topic. Michael's reflection in the passenger door window hinted at his confusion, but DiNozzo offered no explanation and instead returned to flipping through Drantyev's file, his face a mask of concentration.

"Twenty minutes," Michael said a moment later. They did not speak again until arrival, and Rivkin quickly returned the file to his personal bag before pressing a second on into Tony's arms. It was small – about the same size of the backpack he had carried into the office in D.C. for over five years – but was heavy enough that DiNozzo could tell it was full of every essential item he could probably imagine as necessary and probably a couple he wouldn't have thought of.

"Once we're inside," Rivkin said, "go directly to the counter and purchase a pair of tickets for Paris. There should be enough money in your bag."

"Great," Tony said. "I've always wanted to visit Paris."

"Keep wanting," Michael replied. "We are not going there."

"If they ask for identification?"

"Also in the bag." Michael pulled the Peugeot into an empty parking space and turned off the engine.

"Do I also get a laser wristwatch too?" Tony asked wryly as he opened the door and levered himself out of the car. A twinge of pain shot through his leg, but it was sturdy enough to support his weight. As he stretched, he shot a quick look in the direction of their pursuers as they parked their battered looking BMW as close as possible without being too obvious. Unfortunately, their attempts to keep from being noticed served to accomplish the exact opposite effect and Tony frowned. These men were amateurs.

Once inside the main terminal of the rail station, he and Michael split apart and headed for different ticket counters. The ache in his leg redoubled as he waited in line, and Tony fought back a groan as he finally limped forward. He exhaled a sigh of relief when the cashier understood English, and DiNozzo quickly passed over the requisite amount of Euros for the ticket.

To his surprise, only one of the men seemed to be following him, and since he could not see Michael anywhere, Tony suspected that the Mossad officer had led his pursuer off for a confrontation. Ignoring the burning in his leg, DiNozzo angled toward the nearest men's room, hiding a smile the moment he saw his shadow follow.

The sterility of the rest room instantly brought to mind the recent _Casino Royale _– who knew a blonde guy nobody had ever heard of could be almost as good as Connery? – and Tony silently cursed his lack of focus. Now was definitely not the time to get distracted, not with a bad guy several steps behind him. He placed the bag on the top of the counter and turned on the sink. A heartbeat later, his shadow entered the restroom, did an obvious double-take at DiNozzo's presence before the mirror and then walked to the nearest urinal where he pretended to take a leak. Tony shook his head at the young man's stupidity. Before he could react, the door to the latrine opened once more, and Michael entered. He caught DiNozzo's eyes and gestured with his head.

"You must be really new at this, kid," Tony said aloud, leaning back to half sit, half recline on the sink counter. His shadow visibly tensed before turning very slowly, eyes widening at the silent presence of Rivkin near the door. The fear on the man's face doubled when Michael produced his Jericho and began screwing on a silencer. Tony blinked before recognizing it as intimidation tactics. This was the sort of thing he and Ziva had perfected, with the pretty brunette acting as a surprisingly effective 'bad cop.'

"Who hired you?" Michael demanded coldly.

_"I do not speak English!" _theman exclaimed in Spanish.

_"Who hired you?" _Tony repeated with a smile. _"My angry-looking friend here does not have a lot of patience, so I would suggest you give us a name while I can still control him."_

_"I do not have a name!" _ Panic was clearly setting in and DiNozzo drew in a careful breath; in his experience, people who didn't have anything to lose were the most dangerous. _"He was foreign, a Russian I think, and paid my brother and I to follow you."_

_"How do you contact him?" _Tony demanded, dropping his smile in favor of the cold glower he had perfected while watching Gibbs.

_"He gave us a cell phone!" _the man said. _"My brother has it!"_

_"No," _Michael said coldly, _"he does not."_

And so saying, he shot the man in the chest.

With a gurgle, the man dropped to his knees, gasping like a fish pulled out of the water. Tony froze in stunned disbelief as Rivkin casually returned his pistol to his own backpack and walked quickly to where the man had collapsed. Grabbing one arm, Michael shot a quick glare at DiNozzo.

"Get over here!" he snapped, the words startling Tony into action. Together, they shoved the dying man into one of the bathroom stalls and Michael jammed the door shut. He pushed DiNozzo in the direction of the sink counter and Tony reflexively grabbed his backpack.

"You shot him," he said softly as he glanced in the mirror to make sure there weren't any blood stains.

"Of course I did," Michael replied sourly. "Did you think we were going to let him go so he could tell Drantyev?" He held up a cell phone. "Now that we have this," he said, "we might have a way to locate him."

"But, you _shot _him," Tony repeated. Shock was beginning to set in. He was no stranger to death – it was part of the job – but this … this was different. Cops didn't murder people in restrooms and then hide the bodies.

"Sometimes," Rivkin said as he grabbed Tony's arm and pushed him through the door, "these things are necessary." He pointed. "Our train is that way."

"Where are we going?" DiNozzo asked a moment later. He felt a piece of himself slipping away and suddenly, the nightmares that plagued Ziva made a little more sense. Blinking, he realized he could still see the shocked expression on the man's face as he looked down at the leaking hole in his chest. Rivkin grunted before sliding toward a dozing couple sitting together on a bench. He rejoined Tony several moments later.

"Nice, apparently," Michael said as he discreetly passed a pilfered ticket to him. DiNozzo frowned but bit back his response. At his silence, Rivkin smiled. "We have thirty minutes before the train leaves the station," he remarked. "Time enough to purchase food, I think." A mischievous glint appeared in his eyes. "And something to read as well," he said. "I recommend _Deep Six _by Thom E. Gemcity."

Forty minutes later, their train finally pulled out of the station and Tony leaned back in his seat, unable to do anything but stare at the city flashing by them outside the window. Every where he looked, DiNozzo could see the dead man's face. Across the aisle from him, Michael was slumped in his chair, eyes closed and body relaxed as he dozed. Tony shook his head and wondered who he was turning into.

With a sigh, he opened the book Rivkin had recommended and began to read.


	19. Things Fall Apart, 19: Ziva

**A/N:** This chapter takes place mostly concurrently with the previous one.

To all asking re: Tony/Ziva "having it out": I'm afraid it's going to be a while before Tony & Ziva. This story was conceived as having three-parts and we're not yet done with Part One.

And in the future, I will keep my personal thoughts about the canon show to myself since it is apparently controversial to do something other than gush over what it has become under Brennan's stewardship. *shrug* Whatever.

* * *

**Ziva**

She was already running late when her phone buzzed.

Cursing softly, Ziva fumbled to get the cell out of her bag as she weaved her Mini through the slow-moving traffic, steering mostly with her knees. This was already turning out to be a spectacularly bad morning and if Gibbs was calling to shout at her for her tardiness, she was not going to be held accountable for her actions. Violence might even be involved since she was operating on a mere three hours of sleep thanks to Abby's insistence that they have just one more drink last night. Yes, it had been an enjoyable evening, especially once the two of them began plotting ways to make Tim's life miserable for that damnable book of his, but Ziva was certainly paying for it now.

Horns blared as she gunned the Mini's engine and shot through a yellow light, expertly maneuvering the tiny car through the small gaps in the traffic. Swerving sharply, Ziva narrowly avoided clipping a battered-looking truck that was, in her opinion, entirely too large to be used by anyone but the military. With her right hand, she finally located her cell phone and flipped it open, frowning at the presence of a new text message. Had it been from any other number, she would have ignored it until she reached the office, but the fact that it came from the Israeli Embassy caused her to take a sharp right turn – much to the vocal annoyance of her fellow drivers – and slide to a squealing stop in a parking lot so she could actually read the message on the stupid phone.

A string of ten digits stared at her from the small digital display and Ziva blew out a deep breath as she mentally translated their meaning. Coming from anyone but the Embassy, they would appear to be the numbers in a phone number, and she knew that if she entered them into the cell, it actually _would _connect to one of Mossad's front companies. Being sent to her in this manner, however, had another meaning: a coded recall command that she had no option but to obey. Tossing the phone back onto the passenger seat, she eased off of the brake and carefully pulled back into the early morning traffic.

Rather than heading toward the Israeli Embassy, though, she made a slightly less than legal U-turn and headed in the direction of the safehouse indicated by the specific code. She obeyed every traffic law along the way and, despite herself, Ziva smiled at how her co-workers at NCIS would have reacted if they saw her driving this carefully. Her amusement faded the moment her phone began buzzing again and she saw that it was Gibbs calling. She contemplated turning it off before deciding to simply ignore it. Knowing the ex-Marine, she had little doubt he would even now be instructing McGee to run a GPS trace on the phone and would be able to triangulate her position relatively easily.

Three cars were parked outside the safehouse when she arrived nearly thirty minutes later – an Israeli delicatessen, she noted – and Ziva parked the mini in the only open space. Her backpack she left in the front seat along with her NCIS badge and the cellphone; if her instincts were correct (and they usually were), she would not need either for a while and when Gibbs inevitably tracked down her car, he would probably want at least the badge back.

_"Go on in," _the beefy woman manning the counter said as Ziva entered the deli. Thick with muscle and showing not even the slightest hint of fat on her frame, the woman's eyes were cold and hard. At a glance, Ziva could tell that she had at least three weapons on her immediate person and the way her left hand barely moved from under the cash register implied a fourth within ready access.

_"Good morning, Officer David," _Michael Bashan said as Ziva entered the backroom of the deli. Dressed immaculately in a suit that likely cost more than her Mini, he was reclining behind a small table and sipping from a small cup. Several large manila folders were atop the table, as well as a plate full of Danishes and an open, empty briefcase. Without asking permission, Ziva took the seat across from the senior Mossad officer and grabbed one of the pastries as the door closed behind her with a distinct _click_. Bashan's lips tightened, though whether it was in annoyance or amusement she could not tell. Nor, for that matter, did she care. His involvement in her personal life had already cost her too much and she was in no mood to pretend that she did not want to see him cowering before her. _"We are sending you to Spain for an intelligence support operation," _Bashan declared without further pleasantry. He placed the cup on the table and placed his hand on the folders. _"You have worked with Officer Rivkin before?" _he asked.

_"I have,"_ Ziva replied. She wet her lips discreetly, hoping that Bashan would not notice her sudden excitement. Spain meant Tony. He could not avoid her in person.

_"He requested you personally," _Bashan said. _"Two days ago, he extracted an asset from a safehouse in Rota," _the senior Mossad officer continued, _"but the location was compromised and they were pursued." _Bashan slid the folder toward her. _"As far as we can tell," _he said, _"the only three people who were aware of this safehouse's existence were Rivkin, the asset and this person."_ Ziva flipped the folder open and blinked in surprise.

"Paula Cassidy," she identified.

_"You know her?" _Bashan asked. Ziva shook her head.

_"I know _of _her," _she corrected. _"I have spoken to her several times on the phone, but we have never actually met." _Bashan almost smiled.

_"Yes, we know," _he said flatly. _"Currently," _he continued, _"she is acting as the team leader of NCIS' Rota field office."_

_"That is _Tony's … _Special Agent _DiNozzo's _job," _Ziva pointed out quickly, flinching internally at her mistake in using his given name. Bashan's eyes flashed.

_"Don't be obtuse," _he snapped. _"You know perfectly well _he_ is_ _the asset Officer Rivkin extracted."_

_"No," _Ziva corrected calmly, _"I _suspected _that might be the case_, _but I did not have confirmation until now." _She met Bashan's eyes and did not blink, even as his expression darkened. _"Have you considered that he might have been the leak?" _she asked in a voice devoid of emotion. It had to be said, though she would suspect herself first.

_"His injuries make that unlikely," _Bashan said almost snidely, a smirk touching his lips when Ziva drew in a sharp breath. _"He was barely conscious while in the safehouse." _She narrowed her eyes.

_"That was unnecessarily cruel," _she growled.

_"As was the reprimand I received from the director for doing my job," _he retorted coldly. He tapped the folder. _"_This_ is your target," _he said. "DiNozzo _is Officer Rivkin's asset, not yours."_

_"Instructions?" _Ziva asked. A lump of ice had taken residence in her stomach and she tried to focus on her duty instead of the feeling that she was betraying Tony.

And the rest of NCIS, of course.

_"We will have an intelligence team in Rota waiting for you," _Bashan said, pushing the remaining folders to her side. _"You will remain covert while determining whether she is the leak that put our officer in danger."_

_"And if she _is_ the leak?" _The ball of ice became solid lead at the senior Mossad officer's bleak expression.

_"Then you will plug it,"_ he said darkly. Ziva swallowed and flipped through the dossier on Cassidy.

_"I do not see a sanction order here," _she said.

_"Do you need one?" _Bashan asked. Ziva looked up from the folder and glared.

_"If you are ordering me to terminate an agent of an allied government," _she said sharply, _"then, yes. I need one." _Bashan shook his head.

_"These Americans have changed you," _he said as he extracted a folded piece of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket. _"The old Officer David would not have asked to see this."_

_"Yes," _Ziva growled as she snatched the document from him, _"she would." _It was entirely in order and she winced a little at the familiar scrawl of her father's signature near the bottom. _"I will not terminate her unless I am absolutely convinced of her guilt," _she said a moment later. Bashan nodded.

_"Of course," _he said. _"The specifics are up to you, but I would recommend using one of the usual suspects. Al-Qaeda is always an excellent scapegoat these days."_

_"Do not tell me how to do my job," _Ziva snapped. She refolded the sanction order and returned it to him. _"When do I leave?" _she asked as she closed the manila folders and placed them into the briefcase.

_"Immediately," _he replied. Bashan was about to comment further when the distinct ring of the small bell over the front door caused them both to tense. A heartbeat later, a familiar voice called out.

"I'm here for my agent," Gibbs announced loudly from the counter. Bashan shook his head in bemusement before pressing a concealed button on the desk. The door swung open and Ziva quickly closed the briefcase. She wondered how close Gibbs had been when McGee's trace finished and how many traffic laws he had violated to arrive here so quickly.

"I will not ask how you located this place," Bashan commented as the NCIS agent stormed into the small room. Jethro's eyes immediately sought out Ziva and he gave her a quick glance as if to determine that she was safe before returning his attention to the still-seated Bashan. "You must be Special Agent Gibbs," the Mossad officer said.

"I must be," Gibbs replied. "And you are?"

"Michael Bashan." Gibbs grunted.

"What are you doing with my agent?" he demanded sharply, crossing his arms as he spoke. Instantly, Bashan's lips curled tightly in a cruel smile.

"_Officer _David works for Mossad, Special Agent Gibbs," he said, "and effective zero seven hundred hours this morning, her liaison duties with NCIS are temporarily suspended."

"On whose orders?" Gibbs' voice was icy but sharp, and Ziva fought back a sigh. She was thoroughly sick of seeing him constantly get involved in these ridiculous urinating contests.

"Director David," Bashan said. He extracted another document from his jacket pocket. "I would offer to let you examine them," he stated coolly, "but I do not think you read Hebrew."

"Gibbs," Ziva said softly. He glanced at her. "There is nothing to worry about. This mission will be a pie walk." She intentionally mangled the idiom.

"A cake walk," he corrected, his eyes still narrowed. "You sure?" She nodded and he looked back at Bashan. "How long?"

"You know I cannot tell you that," the senior Mossad officer said. "If you wish," he added with a tight smile that did not touch his eyes, "I can arrange for a temporary liaison officer to replace her."

"No," Gibbs replied, "that won't be necessary." His eyes jumped back to Ziva. "Come back safe," he ordered.

"_Shalom, _Jethro," she replied as she gathered the briefcase and rose to her feet. Gibbs shot another glare in the direction of Bashan that the senior Mossad officer acknowledged with a single nod; without another word, the silver-haired NCIS agent spun on his heel and walked out of the safehouse. Bashan watched him depart, a frown on his face.

_"Your plane leaves in forty minutes," _he informed Ziva. _"Sarah has the tickets. Shalom, Officer David."_

Ziva did not bother replying.


	20. Things Fall Apart, 20: Jethro

**A/N:** This chapter takes place mostly concurrently with the previous one.

I'm having internet connection woes at the moment, so updates will be sporadic as hell until the Cox Cable people get off their butts and fix my connection.

* * *

**Jethro**

He was leaning against the hood of his illegally parked Charger when Ziva emerged from the safehouse.

In mid-step, she tensed and gave his presence a tight frown, but Jethro ignored it as he crossed his arms and studied her posture. There was no hint that she was being pressured into something that she didn't want to do, but Gibbs could feel his gut twisting and snarling in warning. He said nothing as she walked quickly to her Mini and placed the briefcase in the passenger seat. A moment later, she approached him, her NCIS badge in hand.

"You will want this back," she said as she offered the badge. Jethro shook his head and didn't bother uncrossing his arms.

"Keep it," he replied. "You'll need it when you get back." She gave him a tight smile before lowering her hand. Her fingers wrapped tightly around the badge. "Are you sure you're okay with this?" he asked. Ziva sighed.

"I will be fine," she said flatly. When he grunted in disbelief, her expression darkened. "This is my _job_," Ziva said tersely. Again, she presented the badge to him. "If you cannot deal with that fact, then perhaps you _should_ take this back."

"I already told you," Gibbs growled, "I'm not taking that back, Officer David." They stood there for a moment, glaring at one another, and Jethro looked away first. "I let Tony go without trying to fight for him," he said softly. "Abby would kill me if I did the same for you."

The moment he mentioned DiNozzo's name, Ziva's expression went blank and she glanced away – down and to the left, Gibbs noticed. Knowing how intensely she'd tried to contact Tony in the last six months, it wasn't a particularly large leap in logic to deduce where she was headed after seeing this reaction … and he blinked when he realized that was very likely her intent in the first place. Her eyes jumped back to him, a questioning glint in them, and Jethro gave her a subtle nod of comprehension, even as he silently marveled at her quick thinking. He wondered how she would have passed on word to him that she was heading for Spain if he hadn't mentioned DiNozzo.

"I will be fine," Ziva repeated. Without another word, she retraced her steps to the Mini and got in.

A moment later, she was gone.

The stocky woman was still behind the cash register when Gibbs re-entered the delicatessen but, to his surprise, made no attempt to prevent him from walking through the door to the back room. Officer Bashan was still seated, though he was on the phone and speaking rapidly in Hebrew. Jethro caught his own name as he took the chair that Ziva had been sitting in and waited.

"How may I help you, Special Agent Gibbs?" Bashan asked as he closed his cell phone and placed it atop the desk. He gestured to the pastries, but Jethro ignored them as he studied the Mossad officer in front of him.

"I need to know that you aren't sending Ziva on a suicide mission," he said flatly. A flicker of surprise crossed Bashan's face but was gone almost before it was there.

"The specifics of her mission are classified," the Israeli man replied. "Sarah," he called out, "please bring Agent Gibbs some coffee."

"I don't care about the specifics," Jethro said. "I just want to know that she's going to be safe."

"I cannot tell you that," Bashan said softly after a moment of silence. "You of all people know that, Agent Gibbs. Every assignment she receives has the potential of being her last." He nodded thanks to the woman – Sarah, Jethro reflected – as she placed a styrofoam cup before them.

"Why Ziva?" Gibbs demanded. "Mossad has plenty of other agents, so why her?" Bashan glowered before leaning back in his chair.

"It has ties to a previous mission of hers," he finally said. "She is already familiar with the circumstances, and it is easier to assign this to her than read a new agent in. Thank you for your visit, Agent Gibbs," the Mossad officer said in clear dismissal. "I will be sure to pass on your concern to the director." He leaned back, obviously expecting Jethro to stand.

But Gibbs didn't move.

"Michael Rivkin," Jethro said instead, the name causing Bashan to instinctively flinch, "is working with Tony DiNozzo, isn't he?" When the Mossad officer in front of him made no comment, Gibbs took that for confirmation and leaned forward slightly. He could sense Sarah the bodyguard tense behind him. "If either Ziva or DiNozzo is hurt by you or your organization," Jethro rumbled, "I will bring you down." He locked eyes with the man before him and did not blink. It didn't matter to him that he was threatening an agent of a foreign power, even if their respective governments were ostensibly allies, nor did it really occur to him how ridiculous it must have sounded. Private citizens did not threaten intelligence organizations with reputations like the one that Mossad possessed.

And yet, Jethro meant every single word.

"So noted," Bashan replied wryly. He smiled tightly. "I will pass that on to the director as well."

"You do that," Gibbs ordered. He stood, glanced once at the cup of coffee and then grabbed it. "I'll be watching," he said as he turned away. Sarah was observing him coldly, and Jethro sipped from his cup as they locked gazes. "Good coffee," he remarked as he strode by her, pausing only long enough to drop a five dollar bill on the counter.

Once inside his Charger, Gibbs grabbed his phone and quickly pressed speed-dial 3. McGee picked up on the second ring.

"Special Agent-" he began, but Jethro spoke over him.

"Cancel the BOLO on Ziva's car," he ordered as he started the car's engine and put it in reverse, "and tell the director I need to talk to her when I get back." Gibbs snapped the phone closed before McGee could reply.

The trip back to NCIS took much longer than it should have, but that was mostly due to the rush hour traffic that slowed to a complete crawl, which gave Jethro far too much time to think. Why did Mossad want her in the same country as Tony? From what he had gleaned from brief conversations with Abby or Ducky, Bashan was part of the reason DiNozzo and Ziva were at each other's throats when he came back from Mexico the first time. He didn't know the specifics – didn't _want _to know them – but it defied belief that Mossad would suddenly get the urge to turn into a dating service and arrange a conjugal visit for the two, which meant she was there for some other reason and given her skillset, Gibbs had to assume it was an assassination. But who? And why? And, for that matter, was it really any of his business?

Jethro sighed the moment he realized why he was overreacting. Six months after the fact, he could admit – if only to himself – that he had seriously screwed up in regards to Tony and now he was fiercely overprotective toward his remaining team members. It didn't matter that Ziva was easily his better in personal combat, or McGee was slowly turning into a solid field agent anyone would be proud to have at his back, or Lee was … Lee. They were _his _team, dammit, and he would do whatever he could to protect them, even if they didn't want him to.

_Sure would have been nice for you to feel that way when _I _was around, Boss_, his conscience grumbled, taking the form of Tony as it always did when he was chastising himself. Jethro winced – he _had _felt that way toward DiNozzo, probably moreso than anyone other than Abby, but hadn't ever been able to actually voice it and had stupidly taken Tony for granted. And now, with Tony on a secret undercover assignment Jethro wasn't supposed to know about and both unable and unwilling to speak with the members of his old team, there was no way for Gibbs to apologize … if he could manage to get the words out in the first place.

He finished the coffee before he arrived at the Navy Yard – and it _was _quite good; he made a mental note to stop by that deli on his way to work in the morning … providing Mossad hadn't closed it up, of course – and he discarded the empty cup into the nearest trash receptacle as he headed toward the main entrance of NCIS Headquarters. The two security guards on duty gave him welcoming nods as they checked his identification, but clearly recognized that he wasn't up for conversation today as they quickly waved him through. When the elevator doors slid open, Jethro felt his mood sour even further at the presence of the two standing inside, guilty expressions stamped upon their faces. There was enough space between Lee and Palmer for him to recognize that, for once, they _weren't _doing something they shouldn't have been doing, but he glowered at them just on principle. Palmer visibly wilted, his eyes widening as he shot a quick, desperate look in Lee's direction, and Gibbs stabbed the button for the director's floor with unnecessary force before turning his back on the two.

_I need to have McGee talk to these two, _he told himself sourly. One would think that, after seeing the aftermath of the David/DiNozzo mess, these two would have figured out what a bad idea it was to date a co-worker. Jethro honestly didn't care that official NCIS policy was fine with such relationships or that the two weren't actually violating any rules since they _technically _didn't work together, he simply didn't want to deal with it on his watch. It never ended well.

Cynthia didn't even bother trying to stop him from sweeping into the director's office and Gibbs paused at the doorway as Jenny spoke on the phone. His breath momentarily caught as the sunlight streaming through the window highlighted her hair. For a heartbeat, he was lost to memory – the taste of her lips, the feel of her silky skin against his, the smell of her hair as his fingers tangled within it, the sound of her moans.

He shook the moment away. Paris was a long time ago.

"Thank you for letting me know, Director David," Jenny was saying into the mouthpiece of her phone. She glanced up and gestured for Gibbs to enter. "And you as well," she added before placing the phone in its cradle. A dark expression flashed across her face. "Did you know about this?" she demanded.

"About Ziva?" Jethro asked. Jen nodded. "I just found out about an hour ago," he said. "She was late this morning and didn't answer my call, so I had McGee track her phone."

"Director David was extremely … vague about the reasons why _she _was necessary," Shepard said, a distinct tone of annoyance in her voice, "_especially _when I tried to get an estimate on when she'd be back." She narrowed her eyes. "You're going to be down an agent for a while," she pointed out. Gibbs shrugged.

"Before Kate Todd came aboard," he said calmly, "my core team consisted of exactly two people."

"Agent McGee isn't Tony, Jethro," Jen said softly, her voice pitched only for his ears. Gibbs glowered.

"And more work will complicate whatever it is you've got him doing on the side," he remarked coldly, pinning her with a dark look. To her credit, the director barely reacted. She wet her lips and he could almost see her trying to find an explanation that would satisfy him.

"You'll need a TAD to replace Ziva," she said instead.

"Stan Burley," Gibbs said instantly. Shepard shook her head.

"He's just took charge of the Yokosuka MCRT," she said. "I'll put a list together for you."

"Make it a short list," Gibbs instructed as he headed toward the door, a frown on his face.

He had a bad feeling about this.


	21. Things Fall Apart, 21: Michael

**A/N:** This chapter takes place mostly concurrently with the previous one.

I'm still having internet connection woes at the moment, so updates will be sporadic as hell until the Cox Cable people get off their butts and fix my connection. I'm also _really _trying to finish this story but the direction the canon show has taken has pretty much executed the Muse. I don't understand why people are excited about what they've done to my quirky, funny show.

* * *

**Michael**

"I'm going to kill him."

His partner's comment roused Michael Rivkin from his light doze and he opened his eyes slowly, wincing at the brightness of the sunlight streaming through the train car window. His entire body ached from the awkward position he had slept in and, as he stretched, a cacophony of pops and cracks answered. Fighting back a yawn, Michael rolled his head around in a vain attempt to work out the kinks.

"Who are you going to kill?" he asked as he glanced out the window. Italy was flashing by at three hundred kilometers an hour as the train raced toward Rome and once again, he questioned his decision to avoid airports or renting a car. Three of the four hours this trip was to take had elapsed since they boarded the Trentalia train in Milan, and Michael had slept for nearly that entire time. His decision to purchase first class tickets had proven to be a fortuitous one – the enclosed cabin they had been given was easily defended and sufficiently muffled to let him drift off, something he hadn't been able to do since before landing in Rota nearly four days earlier.

"McGee," Tony said. He tossed the book he'd purchased in Toulouse to one side, a frown on his lips that didn't quite touch his eyes. "I mean Thom E. Gemcity," he scoffed with a shake of his head. "I take it you've already read this nonsense?"

"I thought _Deep Six _to be rather good," Michael replied with a smile. "The sultry Mossad liaison Lisa Dahan was _obviously _my favorite character." He snickered at the expression on DiNozzo's face. To his surprise, Tony started to chuckle as well and, before they knew it, both of them were laughing. DiNozzo winced once when he shifted his wounded leg, but it did not stop him from chortling each time he glanced at the closed book.

"So," Tony said a few minutes later, "I guess I'm the laughing stock of Mossad?" Michael shook his head.

"On the contrary," he answered with a grin, "Tommy DiNardo's sexual exploits may very well explain why Dana has pursued you the way she has." Tony flinched and glanced away, his amusement dwindling away to embarrassment. Rivkin smirked at the other man's discomfort. "Calling her Ziva while the two of you were having sex, however," he added with a broad grin, "was probably not your wisest decision."

"She _told _you?" Tony asked, his face aghast. Michael nodded, chuckling as he did.

"The day after," he admitted. "She was angry and hurt." He flashed a bright grin. "So I feel as if I owe you a measure of thanks. It was good to see _her_ suffer a little bit for a change." For a moment, DiNozzo seemed confused, but his eyes widened.

"Wait," he said. "_You _were the bitter ex she was complaining about?" Michael shrugged and Tony's expression once more turned conflicted. "Dunno how I feel about that," DiNozzo murmured.

"Try not to think about it," Rivkin said with a smile. He glanced at his watch. "We should be arriving in Rome in an hour," he said. "How is your leg?"

"I was shot," Tony replied flatly. "How do you _think _it feels?" Despite the comment, he moved the injured limb around. "I can walk or run as need be, I think," he said.

"Good." Michael pinned him with a look. "There is a good chance that this organization will have people waiting for us."

"Any chance of some of your Mossad ninjas waiting to back us up?" DiNozzo asked.

"You should finish your book," Rivkin told him as he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He could hear Tony sigh and shift in his seat, but the NCIS agent made no further comment. When Michael opened his eyes a few minutes later, DiNozzo was sitting next to the window, his gaze locked firmly on the passing countryside and an unreadable expression on his face.

Not for the first time, Michael wondered about the man sitting across from him. Unrepentant womanizer was how the original Mossad dossier read about him, and there were rumors that Ari had planned to use that weakness against Tony during one of his operations in D.C., but everything that Rivkin had seen firsthand indicated that there was a lot more to Anthony D. DiNozzo than anyone believed. He was more focused and driven than any of his performance reviews indicated, and approached each of their assignments with a zeal that was actually slightly intimidating, even to a member of Mossad. It was as if Tony was driven to prove himself, despite his strong record, and made Michael once more wonder at the man's upbringing. The psych profile that Mossad had compiled indicated that it had been dysfunctional, even for an American, but DiNozzo's obsessive need for justice could not have come out of nowhere, could it? Where could he have learned something like that if not a father figure of some sort?

And then, there was the Ziva equation, and Michael was still at a loss how to deal with that factor. He had long since gotten over his own interest in the director's daughter – the severe tongue lashing and painful physical beating he'd suffered at her hands after she learned that he had slept with Dana always caused him to wince – but it was quite clear that Tony was still distracted by memory of her. They had not talked much about their respective involvement with Ziva and Michael often found himself wishing he had the courage to ask for DiNozzo's opinion. Although Rivkin had known her for longer, it was becoming more and more clear that he had not known her as _well _as Tony had. Each time he considered broaching the subject, though, his ego rejected the notion. Could he even look Tony in the eye if the man knew that Ziva had so thoroughly beaten him after the onetime mistake he had made with Dana? Or even worse, would DiNozzo laugh?

That Ziva was still drawn to Tony had been perfectly clear during his last trip to D.C., and, whenever he closed his eyes, Michael still saw her pleading expression as she begged him to talk Tony into calling her. He shook his head in astonishment; no one in Tel Aviv would believe him if he told them that the dragon lady herself had become a victim in the game of romance. For that matter, _he _barely believed it.

Shrugging, he closed his eyes once more and tried to mentally prepare himself for their coming trials. He would need to be at one hundred percent if they were going to get out of this one alive, and focusing on his partner's relationship with Ziva was a good way to get distracted.

The train slowed to a stop a little over forty-five minutes later – they were running ahead of schedule, it seemed – and Michael gave Tony a quick once-over as they mingled with the crowd exiting the car. DiNozzo's face was paler than normal and he was barely hiding a grimace as he slowly limped along. Muttering a soft curse, Rivkin began re-evaluating their options: there was no way Tony could move as quickly as they need him to, not on that leg, but being fast was going to be their only way out of this situation.

_"Welcome to Rome," _the conductor said with a broad smile as they slowly exited the train. DiNozzo flashed a grin that looked far too forced.

_"Thank you," _he replied in flawless Italian. That was another point in his favor and one that seemed overlooked by most of his performance reviews; fluency in a language other than one's native tongue was impressive enough, but DiNozzo spoke both Italian and Spanish and had been slowly picking up both Hebrew and Russian in the six months they had been working together. Despite himself, Rivkin began wondering if Tony would consider a more permanent position with Mossad despite his lack of Israeli citizenship or his Catholic upbringing; his talents were being wasted with such a relatively unimportant organization as NCIS.

The moment he stepped off the train, Michael could feel his combat-honed instincts begin flaring. He shifted the backpack to his left shoulder, freeing up his primary shooting hand, and let his eyes quickly survey the crowds either greeting the arrivals or waiting for their opportunity to board the train. Four men stood out immediately. A head or so taller than the average Italian, they were all so thick with muscle that they almost seemed to have no necks at all. Dark sunglasses concealed their eyes, but the small wires leading to the earpieces each of them wore further identified them as hostiles.

_"Three," _Tony whispered in passable Hebrew. He too had moved his travel pack to his left shoulder. Michael shook his head.

_"Four," _he corrected. _"No cavalry present," _he added, slowing down as he waited for DiNozzo to mentally translate the reply.

_"Me no run," _Tony added, his limited vocabulary making communication difficult but not impossible. _"You go."_

_"No," _Michael said sharply. He smiled suddenly when he caught sight of two uniformed members of the _Polizia Municipale _on foot patrol through the terminal. Nudging Tony with his shoulder, he angled sharply toward the pair. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the four thugs react; as one, touched their fingers to their ears while they carefully tracked him and Tony. _"Delay," _Rivkin ordered.

_"Officers," _Tony called out in Italian. The two men ceased their conversation and gave DiNozzo a weary glance. _"I need to report some suspicious behavior,"_ DiNozzo said as soon as he had their attention. _"There are some men in the terminal with guns."_

_"Can you point them out?" _the older of the pair asked. Tony nodded and half-turned toward the closest of the four thugs.

And everything exploded into chaos.

The quartet of thugs, recognizing that they had been made, produced submachine guns from concealment, and the sudden appearance of the weapons caused shrieks as panicked bystanders scrambled for cover. Startled and obviously poorly trained, the two PMs instantly dove for cover while pulling their woefully inadequate sidearms. One of them at least had the presence of mind to begin shouting into his radio for backup. At the same time, Michael shoved Tony forward, drawing his Jericho from the under-arm holster concealed under his jacket. DiNozzo followed suit as he half-limped, half-sprinted toward the nearest exit.

Drawing a bead on one of the thugs, Michael squeezed the trigger and felt the satisfying kick as the pistol discharged a .40 round. The slug slammed home with brutal results, dropping his target instantly, but also succeeded in setting off another round of panic.

Which was _exactly _what Rivkin had intended.

Sliding the pistol into cover under his jacket, he fast-stepped to Tony's side, grabbed DiNozzo's arm and hurried them toward the exit along with the other fleeing passengers. Behind them, a short burp of automatic fire sounded followed by the sharp report from the police sidearms. _Good, _Michael thought. Having the gendarmes get involved in a firefight would help cover their escape.

"Down!" Tony snapped as they stumbled through the terminal's exit. His pistol came up and he fired it once, the round punching into the chest of a waiting no-neck thug – number five, Michael reflected – and spinning the man around. More screams followed the gunfire, and Rivkin cursed softly as he lowered his shoulder and shoved through the crowd, pausing only long enough to secure the MP-5 from the dying man. Distant sirens were wailing, but Michael ignored them as he continued their headlong rush toward the street, holstering the Jericho with one hand while giving the submachine gun a cursory glance.

"There!" he said, pointing toward an unattended motorcycle. Tony quickly hobbled toward it as Rivkin half-turned, a two-handed grip on the SMG as he tried to locate new threats. More submachine gun fire sounded inside the terminal along with the rapid _pop _of a police officer's gun.

"Got it!" Tony shouted a half second before he kicked the motorcycle's engine into gear. He hopped onto the saddle. "Come on!" he said. Michael slid onto the bike's back and clung to DiNozzo as the NCIS agent gunned the engine.

With a squeal of tires, the cycle leaped forward, leaving behind a scene of chaos.


	22. Things Fall Apart, 22: Ziva

**A/N:** This chapter takes place mostly concurrently with the previous one.

I'm not going to bother commenting on the finale apart from saying I thought it was mediocrity on parade (though Tony _rocked _in his scene with Eli) that seemed intent on making me actively dislike Ziva. Mission accomplished.

* * *

**Ziva**

It had been a very long flight.

As the plane started its final approach to the Sevilla airport, Ziva slid the personnel files she had been trying to study for the last hour and forty minutes back into her carry-on briefcase. Yawning, she double-checked her seatbelt and tuned out the in-flight message from the captain informing them that they would be arriving a few minutes ahead of schedule. Bright sunlight gleamed through her small window and she could just make out the Spanish landscape beyond through the puffy white clouds the plane was descending through. Another yawn began building and Ziva desperately tried to push it down; she had no time to be tired, despite the twenty-plus hours she had spent either in the air or waiting for her plane. There was a job to do, traitors to unmask and a reputation to rebuild.

The layover in Barcelona had been a long one, and would have been enough time for her to sleep off the jet lag if her bags had not been lost in transit by seemingly incompetent flight attendants (although she had some suspicions about the real reason for the error that would have to wait until she landed.) Equally frustrating was the placement of her hotel room just across the hall from the constantly in use (and ridiculously loud) elevator. At the moment, thanks to her inability to sleep, she could still feel the lingering effects of the eight hour flight from Newark, New Jersey, to Spain and she still had to rent a car upon arrival for the hundred and fifty kilometer drive to Rota itself despite wanting to do nothing more than collapse in a bed for a few more hours. Sometimes, she wondered if the pea counters – was that the right expression? Stupid English – back in Tel Aviv actually understood just how difficult this sort of travel actually was for the human body.

As she stared at the beautiful countryside beyond the window, Ziva let her mind drift back over the personnel files she had just closed and fought to keep from groaning at the staggering lack of experience in the three-man team she was expected to lead. Each member of the trio had extensive backgrounds in surveillance, computer use and electronics – the Israeli equivalent of McGee or Lee, she reflected – but seemed to have only recently been recruited from the military. They barely had a combined six months of active service with Mossad, though the senior of the three at least had spent three months working with Shin Bet while he was active duty Army. Their ages could also be a problem – the oldest was just twenty-two and she knew from experience that boys that age could be a problem. More often than not, they seemed halfway convinced that she had earned her place in Mossad entirely on her back and often thought this entitled them to certain liberties. Ziva frowned as she began making plans for how to disabuse them of the notion and remind them that she was in charge. It would require finesse rather than brute force to put them in their places. She still needed them to be able to work when she was done, after all.

Walking, however, might not be entirely necessary for at least one of them. She brightened.

The landing was slightly rougher than it should have been, but then, the entire flight had been choppy, an indication of lack of skill on the pilot's part. Quickly gathering her carry-on, she stood and joined the slow-moving line of fellow passengers as they made their way to the exit. To Ziva's carefully hidden disgust, she was sandwiched between a particularly obese man with extraordinarily bad halitosis and a rail-thin woman whose body odor was distressingly foul. She could not get off the plane soon enough.

At the luggage carousel, Ziva retrieved her single suitcase, gratified that it had not been _too _badly damaged in the flight. She took the most direct path to the nearest woman's bathroom and secured the door behind her so she could check her luggage. Within seconds, she found two different tracking devices secured to the case's bottom, and a third she located within the plastic of the handle minutes later. Rolling her eyes – all three looked to be of American manufacture which confirmed her suspicions that the 'loss' of her luggage had been anything but an accident – she dropped the bugs into the toilet but did not bother flushing it. Instead, she spent a few minutes stripping the case of identifying tags that could be easily traced to her. Glancing through the clothes and essentials within, she was gratified that Mossad had not used any of _her _personal items. There was nothing within the case that she could not live without. Propping the case up against a far wall, she casually walked from the restroom. If airport security was even remotely effective, they would end up isolating the case for at least an hour while bomb sniffing dogs were called in to examine the unattended item.

Just beyond the restroom, Ziva paused before one of the mounted televisions and frowned at the breaking news about a foiled terrorist attack in Rome. She shook her head in slight disgust at how panicked the local journalists appeared to be as they reported on the unexpected attack. When would these Europeans learn? What would it take to shake them out of their lethargy? Another six million Jews? For America, it had been three thousand deaths in the span of a few hours, and Ziva still felt a flicker of embarrassment that her first thought on that morning had been '_now you know how Israel feels every day._'

The sensation of being watched caused her to tense as she strode into the main passenger terminal, but Ziva was not able to immediately locate her hidden observers. In mid-stride, she changed directions sharply and walked quickly to a nearby phone kiosk. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a man Tony's age who was a touch too pale to be a native track her movements with a fraction more interest than he should; if there had been even the hint of a leer, she could have explained it away, but the bloodless way he watched her had a different meaning.

Depositing several coins into the phone, she dialed a local number and let it ring twice before hanging up. Doing so actually served no purpose but to distract – the agents (probably Americans since they monitored _everyone _these days thanks to bin Laden; it had taken them decades, but they finally understood the world as Israel saw it on a daily basis) watching her would be forced to investigate the number and determine if it was a coded contact or was a simple waste of time. A sudden sense of whimsy struck her and she dialed another number from memory.

"_Fortune_ _Equity Group,"_ a masculine voice answered in Spanish and Ziva smirked at the ridiculous cover.

"Your man is sloppy, Mister Webb," she said flatly. "Pull him back before something … unfortunate happens to him. _Veritatem cognoscere._" She hung up before the CIA section chief could respond. Heads would probably roll upon the revelation that she, a Mossad operative, knew his private number, but if it gave her enough latitude to operate freely, it would be worth it. Ziva smirked as she envisioned the section chief's horrified expression as he realized his cover was not as intact as he would like to think.

Turning away from the phone, she blinked in mild surprise when she caught sight of the person now seated alongside the harried-looking CIA shadow. An amused expression on her face, Dana Stavi gave her a quick wave before leaning over to whisper something in the man's ear. Ziva sighed.

"He's not _that _sloppy," a soft voice informed her, and Ziva froze, her eyes sliding cautiously to the slightly overweight but otherwise normal-looking man now dialing a number on the phone next to the one she was in front of. "Miss David," the man said with a smile. "Enjoy your stay in Spain." He hung up the phone and walked away.

_"Something wrong?" _Dana asked in soft Hebrew as she joined her. Ziva shook her head.

_"The eagle's spies are getting better," _she said, gesturing for her fellow Mossad officer to precede her. Dana gave her a disbelieving look, but offered no other comment. _"Why are you here?" _Ziva asked.

_"Setting up your network," _Dana replied. _"Your team is … inexperienced."_

_"I know," _Ziva said with a sigh. She grimaced the moment she saw the cover of the book her colleague was carrying. _"Please tell me you are not reading that," _she said. The grin that Dana flashed was _far _too bright.

"_Deep Six_ is fantastic!" she replied in English, pushing the damnable thing toward Ziva with an almost malicious glint in her eyes. "The sultry Mossad liaison, Lisa Dahan, is my new hero!"

"I am going to kill him," Ziva grumbled under her breath. She closed her eyes and began making plans. A bullet was too quick … unless she shot him in the stomach. Perhaps a slow-acting poison? Or something like that post-apocalyptic Australian movie Tony made her watch with a young Mel Gibson involving handcuffs and a hacksaw? Yes, that would do nicely.

"You _must _introduce me to the Very Special Agent DiNardo," Dana continued as she took Ziva's arm and directed them toward a waiting car, an almost bitter edge to her voice as she spoke though Ziva knew not why. A remarkably young-looking man was behind the wheel, and Ziva recognized him as Isaac, the youngest of the intel trio assigned to her. _"In the back," _Stavi ordered sharply, and the boy scrambled to obey, leaving the front seats open for the two women. Dana slid into the driver's seat and gunned the engine. A moment later, they were racing through the streets of Sevilla.

_"Report," _Ziva demanded of Isaac. He gaped for a heartbeat and she gave him a dark frown.

_"We have started wiretaps of her home lines," _he finally said, _"but she lives on the Naval base…"_

_"I do not want excuses," _Ziva interrupted sharply, recognizing that the boy was fairly useless at the moment. At a glance, she could tell he was too busy focusing on how quickly Dana was driving. She turned back to face the front and gave Stavi a quick sidelong glance. _"How far along have you gotten?" _

_"Not very," _came the instant response. _"She's careful and intelligent, but there are none of the usual hints that she might be dirty."_

_"With the good ones," _Ziva pointed out, _"there rarely is."_ Dana nodded in acknowledgement of the point.

_"But she would lose more than she would gain," _she said. _"There is something else going on, Ziva," _Dana continued after a moment. _"Are they sure Michael and the asset are innocent?"_

_"Bashan told me the … asset was injured and in no condition to make contact with someone outside," _Ziva replied. _"And Michael, well you know him better than I do." _The last was said with a hint of recrimination and Dana's lips tightened. To her surprise, though, Ziva realized that she did not blame the other woman for what had happened with Michael; Dana's … proclivities were well known within the circles they traveled in, so the blame was entirely Rivkin's. Getting drunk with Officer Stavi always led to sex, regardless of one's gender. _"The CIA knows I am here," _Ziva continued after a moment, _"so our surveillance will need to be particularly discreet." _She frowned. _"We will need to distract them, make them think that someone else is our target." _Half-turning in her seat, she looked at Isaac. _"I will need a complete overview of all personnel assigned to this base, American and otherwise," _she said. His eyes widened.

_"That will take…" _he started to argue before quickly nodding when her expression darkened. _"Yes, Officer David," _he said instead.

_"And I will need you," _Ziva told Dana, _"to lead our shadows away from Rota." _Stavi grinned.

_"So I get to pretend to be the sultry Mossad liaison, Lisa Dahan?" _she asked with a snicker, her eyes dancing. _"This could be fun!"_

Ziva sighed. She was definitely going to kill McGee.


	23. Things Fall Apart, 23: Abby

**A/N:** This chapter takes place mostly concurrently with the previous one, though it may be around a day or so later. It also takes place during 4x12 "Suspicion."

Here's to hoping this attempt at Abby works better than the previous one. At some point, I'm going to give Ducky a try, I think...

* * *

**Abby**

Major Mass Spec was _not _cooperating.

Currently, he was struggling to identify the exact kind of toxins swimming in the bloodstream of a Navy petty officer killed under suspicious circumstances aboard the USS _Ronald Reagan_. The Agent Afloat had forwarded all of the necessary evidence and, had the MCRT not been distracted with their own investigation into the death of Marine Lieutenant Rihama Shaheen, Abby knew that Gibbs would be chomping at the bit to take over the _Reagan _murder.

"Come on," Abby muttered as the mass spectrometer once again choked on the sample she'd fed him. She thought about smacking the device – percussive maintenance, Tony would have called it – but instead stalked away to her video phone. Two rings later, a harried-looking Bobby the Tech Support Gremlin (Tony's nickname) appeared on the small display.

"Tech support, this is … oh, hey, Abby."

"Major Mass Spec is _still _not working," she said instantly. "You said he would be fixed this week." Bobby sighed.

"I'll have someone down there in an hour or so," he said.

"Good!" Abby replied with a bright smile. She was about to make another comment when the phone chirped, indicating a new call. "Gotta go!" she said before quickly hitting the button on the phone that disconnected the current call and answered the new one. "Jack!" she exclaimed with happy surprise when the new image appeared.

The major crimes response team leader of NCIS Rome, Jack Patterson had tapped her expertise numerous times in the past, insisting that her half-hearted efforts were a dozen times better than the work of his entire forensic department. They had yet to meet in person – he was always on the other side of the planet or their schedules simply clashed – but Abby had grown to think of him as part of her extended family.

"Hey, Abs," Patterson said with an exhausted smile. "How's my favorite Goth genius doing?"

"I'm bored," she replied. "Tell me you've got something good for me." Jack chuckled as he ran his fingers through his hair.

"Yeah," he replied. "I'm sending you the video from the train station," he said a moment later, "and wanted to know if you could run it through the facial recognition software you've got."

"Can do!" Abby said before scrunching up her face in a frown. "How did you get it? I thought the Italians were refusing to let any foreign agencies help them investigate." Patterson smirked.

"A Navy lieutenant was at the station when these terrorists hit," he said. "I _may _have implied to the Italian government that she could be the actual target."

"Oh, you naughty boy, you," Abby said with a grin. Her computer dinged and she gave it a quick glance. "Okay, I got the vids," she stated. "How soon do you need this?"

"As soon as you can get it, please." Jack yawned. "You've got my numbers, right?"

"Yup." She gave him a bright smile. "Go get some sleep, Jack," she instructed. "Abby Scuito is on the job!" Patterson grinned.

"Thank you, my Goth genius," he said before terminating the connection.

Chuckling, Abby plopped down in front of her computer, interlaced her fingers and cracked them, pausing only briefly to study the background image. A photo of Tony and Ziva laughing at something, the picture had been snapped while Gibbs was away in Mexico and was definitely one of Abby's fondest memories of that time. Following the successful closing of another case, Tony had decided to combine their post-arrest celebration with Abby's birthday party and convinced everyone – but Gibbs, of course – to meet up at the bar where he had somehow arranged to have cake waiting. Even Director Shepard had made a brief appearance, and Abby couldn't remember if she or Tim had been the one who snapped this particular pic. The ridiculous-looking paper birthday hats that Tony and Ziva were wearing in the photo never failed to cause her to smile.

She shot a look at the empty Caf-Pow cup before shrugging and refocusing her attention back on the monitor in front of her. Most of this work would be automated – all she had to do was drop the .mp3 files atop the icon representing the facial recognition software and then let the computer do its magic – but there were still some outstanding reports she needed to finish for other cases and _hopefully _someone would finally show up and get Major Mass-Spec to work right.

Twenty minutes later, she heard the elevator ding and glanced in the direction of her door. Her 'Gibbs Sense' wasn't going off, so she doubted it was him. Besides, he knew full well that he was _persona non grata _at the moment for letting Mossad snatch Ziva away without putting up a real fight to keep her in D.C. The moment that her visitor appeared, Abby's expression darkened and she looked back at her screen.

"Delivery for you," Special Agent Brent Langer said as he wheeled a hand dolly through the door. It was stacked to the top with boxes.

"Put it over there," Abby ordered coolly. She knew her dislike of Langer was unreasonable – he seemed like a nice enough guy and had an absolutely _fantastic _ass in her decidedly unbiased opinion – but she just didn't _want_ to warm up to him. It was probably because of what he represented: a team without Tony or Ziva on it. She watched as he pushed the boxes into place and tilted her head slightly to give his butt another look.

The fact that he hadn't brought her a Caf-Pow certainly didn't improve her opinion of him though.

"The local LEOs already processed most of it," Langer said as he worked the hand dolly free, "but Gibbs wants you to double-check their results." He handed her a clipboard and she glanced over the forms.

"Is he kidding?" she asked as she flipped the pages up. "I can't do anything with this." Langer actually took a step back from her when she looked up.

"Don't shoot the messenger!" he said quickly, holding his hands up in mock surrender. "I'm just doing what _McGee _told me to," Langer added, a hint of bitterness creeping into his voice. Abby quickly glanced away to hide her smile; in the three days since Brent had been seconded to NCIS from FBI, Tim had made sure that Langer knew what the actual chain-of-command was in an amusingly Tony-like fashion. He was doing that a lot, though she'd noticed he only channeled DiNozzo when he was feeling uncomfortable or overwhelmed by a situation.

Thoughts of McGee quickly caused her momentary good humor to fade as she reflected on the MOAS he seemed to be carrying. Abby wasn't sure what exactly he was hiding, but it was very obviously eating him up from the inside. She couldn't count the number of times he'd appeared on the verge of spilling his guts to her, but each time, he swallowed the moment and fled with undue haste. Whatever it was, the director was involved somehow.

"I'll take a look at it," Abby said sourly as she scribbled her signature on the form and handed the clipboard back. Langer flashed her a smile that wasn't quite as endearing as a DiNozzo Special.

But it was _very _close.

Her computer beeped as Langer headed for the door and, with one last glance at his butt, Abby returned her full attention to the monitor before her. She stared at the flashing message for a moment: MATCH FOUND.

"Wow," she murmured, "I'm better than I thought!" With the mouse, she clicked the button and pulled up the data. Her breath caught.

It was Tony.

His hair was a couple of shades darker than normal and was definitely longer than she ever recalled seeing him wear it, but the captured image was unmistakably Anthony D. DiNozzo. From the way he was hunched over, Abby could tell that he was hiding something underneath the light jacket he was wearing – she couldn't make out what it was exactly, although the angle of his arm was suggestive of a pistol.

Frozen in place alongside him was another familiar face, though Abby didn't know the Mossad officer's name. She had seen him in the building a couple of times in the last few months, most often with the director but at least once with Ziva, who had _not _looked happy to see him. The man's hand was clutching Tony's bicep and he too appeared to be hiding something under a similar jacket. DiNozzo didn't look to be under any duress, though, so Abby suspected that they were working together. She wet her lips before reaching for the phone.

"Director Shepard's office," Cynthia answered a moment later.

"This is Abby. I need to talk to the director."

"The director is very busy-" Cynthia began, but Abby cut her off.

"It's important," she insisted. "Tell her it's about Rome." A long pause ensued before Cynthia finally responded.

"Hold, please."

"What is it, Abby?" Director Shepard asked seconds later.

"I need you to come down to the lab," Abby said. "Jack Patterson sent me videos from the train station in Rome and … you need to see this, ma'am." The urgency in her voice must have gotten through as the director responded immediately.

"I'll be down shortly," she said.

Shortly didn't quite cover it. Less than five minutes later, Director Shepard fast-walked through the door, her breath coming slightly faster than was normal. Abby immediately began explaining.

"So," she said quickly, her finger hovering over the ENTER key on her keyboard, "Jack asked me to run the facial recognition software of the mp3's he sent, and I did. I've already got two hits." She pressed the button and a military ID appeared on the master screen. "Navy Lieutenant Susan Christian. On leave with her family." Shepard gave her a look.

"Somehow, I don't think the lieutenant is why you called," she said. Abby shook her head as she clicked on another file.

"And NCIS Special Agent Tony DiNozzo," she said as the screengrab popped up. Shepard tensed. "I don't know the guy he's with," Abby said, "but I'm pretty sure he's Mossad 'cause I've seen him in the building a couple of times." She studied the director. "I thought Tony was in Rota," she said more calmly than she felt. It was one thing to suspect that he was on a secret mission, but an entirely different creature to look at actual evidence.

"He is," Shepard said carefully. She nodded toward the main screen. "Who knows about this?" she asked.

"Just you," Abby said. She swallowed and decided to gamble. "And Gibbs." The director's face darkened.

"See to it that it stays that way," she ordered. "I'll speak with Agent Patterson personally, but Tony DiNozzo was _never _in Rome. Is that clear?"

"Yes, ma'am." Shepard nodded and stormed out of the lab. Abby shook her head as she retreated to her office, pulling out her cell phone the moment the door was closed. Her call was answered immediately.

"Gibbs."

"It's me," Abby said softly. "Are you alone?"

"Yes."

"Tony was in Rome," she said after drawing in a deep breath, "but the director ordered me to bury the evidence." She swallowed. "What do I do?"

"Bury it like she said," Gibbs replied. He didn't sound surprised. "I'll deal with the director." A moment later, he spoke again. "Good work, Abs."

Hanging up, Abby leaned forward in her office chair and dropped her head into her hands as worry started to overwhelm her. Was this why Ziva had been recalled to Mossad? Was Tony in danger? Did they need her to rescue him? Under her breath, she mumbled a soft curse and began the process of burying the information that would link Tony to Rome.

She hoped it would be enough.


	24. Things Fall Apart, 24: Tony

**A/N:** This chapter takes place mostly concurrently with the previous one. It also takes place during 4x12 "Suspicion."

Major thanks to **Sashille **for the expert medical advice I used and abused. Any mistakes made are my fault, not hers.

* * *

**Tony**

Rome was absolutely nothing like he expected it would be.

In the city's defense, lurking in crappy hotels on the bad part of town to avoid detection by angry men with guns and bad Slavic accents wasn't exactly an ideal vacation, even for international spies and law enforcement officers. To make matters even worse, Tony's injured leg felt like it was on fire, making him fear that the as yet unhealed bullet wound had become infected. Putting any weight on it hurt like hell and moving faster than a zombie shuffle seemed completely out of the question. It didn't entirely surprise him that the wound had gone bad – his escapade in Rota was barely a week ago, and since then, he and Michael had been on the move almost nonstop. There hadn't been any time to do more than make sure the bullet wound wasn't bleeding before they moved on.

This sort of thing _never _happened to action heroes in the movies.

At the moment, though, DiNozzo's attention was mostly focused on the intelligence reports spread out on the small table before him in an attempt to block out the pain in his leg. Something Michael had told him was tickling the back of his brain and Tony knew he wouldn't be able to rest before figuring out _what _exactly was bothering him. Gibbs would have said that his gut was telling him something, but Tony just couldn't quite figure out what. Everything revolved around Drantyev, and DiNozzo _knew _he had seen something, somewhere that his instincts knew to be important, even if the rational part of his mind didn't yet recognize the connection. With a dark frown, he slapped one of the files closed and reached for a second one, inhaling sharply at the twinge that coursed up his leg.

The creak of floorboards outside the hotel room caused him to react instantly. Grabbing the Jericho concealed at his side, Tony whipped it up and drew a bead on the door leading to the main hotel without pushing himself up off of the couch. A rapid series of knocks – two, three, two – caused him to relax fractionally, though he didn't lower the pistol until Rivkin opened the door, slid inside and pushed it closed again. The Mossad officer gave the Jericho a glance and DiNozzo shrugged.

"Just in case you'd been compromised," he said as he lowered the pistol. Michael smiled.

"You are learning," Rivkin said with approval. He looked over the papers on the table before placing the bag he was carrying atop them. Bottles clinked and Tony frowned as he watched Rivkin began pulling out medical supplies.

"Hit up a hospital?" DiNozzo asked, shifting awkwardly on the couch and flinching at the sharp pain lancing through his leg.

"Something like that," Michael replied. He knelt and began unwrapping the dirty bandage. With each jostle of his leg, Tony grimaced. He tilted his head back and clenched his teeth as he fought to keep from groaning. "This is not good," Rivkin said a moment later.

"It's infected, isn't it?" Tony hissed. He kept his eyes locked on the ceiling; right now, the last thing he wanted to do was look at his leg.

"Yes," Michael agreed. "You need medical attention." Without warning, he splashed something onto Tony's leg, something that burned like acid. DiNozzo yelped before quickly biting back the urge to scream. He clutched the back of the couch with one hand and _squeezed_.

"God!" he moaned as the sting of the antiseptic waned slightly. "Couldn't you have given me some warning?"

"Would that have made it hurt any less?" Rivkin asked before repeating the action, this time wiping the leg down with a cloth Tony desperately hoped was sterile.

"That's not the damned point!" he said sharply. He bit back another groan when Michael shifted the leg a little bit more.

"The bullet is already out," Rivkin said as he began gathering the medical equipment. Tony nodded.

"Well, yeah," he muttered. "You took it out back in Rota." He had pretty clear memories of that, even though he'd been swimming in and out of consciousness at the time. Michael shook his head.

"It was already out when I arrived at the safehouse," he said. "Agent Cassidy must have done it."

"She didn't," Tony stated flatly. "I remember her watching … but somebody else pulled the round out." He drew in a sharp breath when Michael placed a second cloth, this one soaking with disinfectant, atop the wound. "I thought it was you," he said through clenched teeth.

"So," Rivkin mused under his breath, "she brought someone else to the safehouse." He stood. "I need to boil some water if I am going to do this right."

"It's gonna hurt, isn't it?" Tony asked. Michael nodded.

"Very much so." He moved to the bathroom and, a moment later, Tony could hear the water pouring from the faucet. He shook his head – why did this sort of thing always happen to him? James Bond never had to deal with infected wounds. He was always better by the next scene.

"Tony," his partner said, and DiNozzo blinked when he realized that Rivkin had somehow crossed the room without a sound. _Damned Mossad ninjas,_ Tony mentally groused as he glanced up at Michael. He instantly focused on the syringe Rivkin was holding. "The pain is going to be … considerable," Michael said. "It will be better for both of us if you are unconscious while I work."

Tony sighed. Ever since the football injury that had ended his chance to go professional, he'd hated drugs. They made him feel sluggish, weak and completely out of control. But right now, they didn't have a choice. He nodded.

"I hope it's strong," he said. "I've built up a resistance to most painkillers over the years." Michael smirked as he jabbed the needle into Tony's arm.

"I know," Rivkin said. "I have read your file."

"Mossad has a file on me?" Tony asked with a bright grin. "Cool!" He blinked as the world suddenly began swimming out of focus. Michael's head ballooned to three times normal size and lights danced around the Mossad officer like glittering fireflies. "Oh," DiNozzo slurred, "that's the good stuff all right."

A moment later, he was unconscious.

He swam up out of the gray haze an eternity later. His every sense was dulled and he grimaced at the familiar sensation. _I'm sorry, Mister DiNozzo_, a voice from his past whispered, _but I'm afraid the chances of you returning to football are negligible at best. You'll be lucky to walk without a limp._

"Go to hell," Tony tried to murmur exactly as he'd told the doctor so many years ago, but it came out as an incoherent babble that even he in his current state recognized to be gibberish. Prying open his eyes was harder than anything he'd ever done before and he quickly clenched them closed the moment the bright overhead light penetrated his fogged mind. His mouth tasted like cotton.

"Drink," a soft, accented voice said to him. Warm hands touched him, helping him to sit up and pressing a straw into his mouth. He sipped instinctively, allowing the cool liquid to sooth his scratchy throat. "Not too much," the woman of his dreams told him and Tony smiled lazily.

"Thanks, Ziva," he murmured. She might give him crap, might tease him or piss him off, but he knew she would always be there to cover his six when he really needed her. It was one of the things he loved about her. To his surprise, she sighed and Tony thought he heard someone – a _male _someone – snicker.

"That is twice you have called me by her name," the woman said, a hint of annoyance creeping into her voice. DiNozzo blinked rapidly and the person he thought to be Ziva rapidly transformed into a very unamused Dana Stavi. _Oh, crap, _Tony thought.

"Dana?" he asked with a thick tongue. Glancing around, he caught sight of Michael sitting at the small table, a partially disassembled submachine gun in front of him. Rivkin looked terrible, like he hadn't slept in a week, but his eyes were dancing with poorly concealed mirth.

"So you _do _know my name," Officer Stavi said tersely. "I was beginning to wonder." She stood, shaking her head, and quickly glanced in Michael's direction. _"I think he is well enough to travel," _she remarked in Hebrew. It took Tony a long moment to mentally translate her words into something he could comprehend and, by the time he understood her comment, she had stalked away, disappearing into the bathroom and slamming the door behind her.

"Welcome back to the land of the living," Rivkin said as he began putting the MP-5 back together. "You have been unconscious for the better part of two days."

"And already," Tony said wryly as he forced his legs off of the uncomfortable bed he had somehow been moved to, "I've managed to piss someone off. That takes real talent, you know?" He rubbed his eyes and gave the bandage wrapped around his leg a look. The sound of the shower turning on caused him to glance in the direction of the bathroom door. "I see we've got company," he muttered.

"Dana arrived this morning," Michael said. "She was … on a mission of her own in the region when I contacted the Israeli embassy for backup." Avoiding the consulate had been a decision both of them made long before they ditched the stolen motorcycle; it would be, after all, the first place their shadowy enemies would look for them to go. They had briefly toyed with contacting NCIS Rome – Tony knew they could trust SA Patterson – but eventually decided to keep as low a profile as possible; it was safer for everyone involved.

"I'm starting to think Mossad is just the four of you," DiNozzo remarked as he forced himself to his feet. His left leg buckled, but he caught himself before toppling. Rivkin watched with a smirk on his face.

"Israel is not a large nation, Tony," he retorted good-naturedly. "Our available assets are not quite as significant as what you fat and lazy Americans have at your disposal." He was silent as Tony began testing how much weight the leg would take. "Can you walk?"

"Not well," Tony replied, "but yeah, I think I can." He hobbled to the couch and used it to hold himself up. "I'm sorry for slowing you down," he said after a moment of silence. Michael gave him a look that DiNozzo couldn't quite comprehend. "I know you'd be making better time if I wasn't wounded," he started, but Rivkin interrupted.

"You were ambushed," he said flatly, "by six men armed with guns while you had only a knife and your wits. Not only did you survive, but you killed or badly wounded five of them and escaped relatively unharmed." He shook his head. "Only you would think that this was a failure, Tony. No one could have done better in your situation." When DiNozzo opened his mouth to argue, to point out all of the mistakes he'd made that put him in the situation on the beach in the first place, Michael spoke again. "_No one_," he repeated forcefully, locking eyes with Tony and refusing to look away.

"I'm still slowing you down," Tony pointed out. Rivkin shrugged.

"Remind me to tell you about how Ziva and Dana got me out of Tehran one day," he said darkly. DiNozzo swallowed at the thick emotions in the man's voice – it didn't sound like a happy story – and looked away. He couldn't help but to notice the placement of their bags (plus one that must have belonged to Officer Stavi) next to the door.

"We're leaving?" he asked.

"As soon as Dana finishes her shower." Michael rose, the submachine gun now fully assembled. "There is a ship waiting to take us to Athens," he continued. "From there, a plane will take us to Tel Aviv." DiNozzo shook his head and sighed.

"No invisible submarine?" he asked, injecting a whine in his voice that _almost _covered up the pain starting to crawl up his leg again. "Or jet packs at dawn?" Michael rolled his eyes.

"Hardly," he answered. "A fast ship, followed by a faster plane." Tony shook his head as he limped across the room, putting as little weight on his leg as possible. It hurt – a _lot._

"You Mossad guys suck," he said with a forced grin on his face.


	25. Things Fall Apart, 25: Ziva

**A/N:** This chapter takes place mostly concurrently with the previous one. It also takes place during 4x12 "Suspicion."

Apologies to **Sashile **for screwing up her penname; that happens to me all the time with the most common version being misspelled as "Rigel Kent" so I should have been more careful. Alas.

Sorry for the delay here. I've been busy actively seeking employment (again) and have had some major computer woes in the last week. Coupled with Shane Brennan killing my interest in NCIS with what he's done to the show I used to like (I _loath _what they have done to Ziva and frankly just don't care if she comes back, not after what she's pulled in this so-called "Tiva" arc), I just haven't been online much at all.

* * *

**Ziva**

She was beginning to hate Spain.

A week had passed since she had arrived in-country, and despite the glorious weather, the magnificent beaches, and the daily pleasure of seeing dozens of attractive men in very skimpy bathing suits, Ziva was more than ready to return to D.C. What she had expected to be a simple surveillance mission (with the very real possibility of it becoming an assassination) was rapidly turning into a far more intensive investigation that she simply did not have the assets to conduct. The three _boys_ assigned to her – Isaac Chayat, Moshe Harari and … Ari Livni– were almost less than useless, so enamored were they of the thrill of being on an actual mission for Mossad that they seemed to lose track of the actual mission itself!

And then, there was Paula Cassidy.

Simply from her assessment of the woman's personnel file, Ziva had already deduced that her potential target was highly intelligent and quite observant which meant that discretion was all important. She had served briefly on Gibbs' team before being injured in a clash with a serial killer, and apart from a single lapse of judgment during her time as an interrogator at the American base in Guantanamo, Cuba, Special Agent Cassidy had a spotless record with NCIS. There was no sudden influx of money to indicate a payoff or a mad scramble for funds implying an unexpected debt that could be used as leverage by hostile powers. Her credit cards were not maxed out, she lived well within her means, and had even managed to pay off her college loans within a reasonable amount of time. An only child, both of her parents were deceased, so threats against loved ones would not be a viable approach. Apart from her brief dalliance with Tony DiNozzo – Ziva flinched every time she considered that point – Mossad could find nothing on the woman that was even remotely blackmail material. The evidence gathered led Ziva to one conclusion: Cassidy was not the leak.

She did not bother telling this to the Three Amigos – damn Tony for making her watch that stupid movie – since they needed as much seasoning as possible and participating in a wild … turkey? chase would ultimately be good for them. They needed to know the frustration inherent in most missions, the long hours of boredom that accompanied stakeouts, and just how much work went into finding even a scrap of usable intelligence. Like most rookies their age, they were still too blinded by the romance of serving Mossad and had not yet come to terms with just how _unromantic _the job actually was most of the time.

At the moment, however, Ziva was focusing more on trying to identify the person who had extracted the bullet from To … the _asset's _leg in the safehouse. Based on Michael's description of the stitches, this individual had to have some sort of medical training above and beyond that of a simple first aid course, which implied a corpsman who had been assigned to a combat Marine unit, a paramedic, an actual physician, or possibly even a veterinarian. Armed with this information, Ziva was cross-referencing all of Cassidy's past cases and investigations with the list of base personnel currently assigned to Rota.

And it was still rapidly leading nowhere.

_"Anav is moving," _Moshe announced softly in Hebrew from where he sat, using the code name assigned to Cassidy. He shifted awkwardly in front of his computer screen, struggling briefly with the cast that encased his right leg, and quickly tapped a couple of rapid commands into his PowerBook. As he had for the last five days, he kept his eyes downcast when he glanced in Ziva's direction and she almost smiled at his inability to actually meet her gaze. Finally, he was learning.

_"Remind … Ari," _she instructed, wincing only slightly at the utterance of name, _"to keep at least three car lengths behind her this time."_ Ziva stood, shifting her bag and quickly checking the placement of the knife secured to her leg. It was concealed from view by the short sun skirt she was wearing but was within easy access. Grabbing her large hat, she placed it atop her head and headed toward the door of the hotel room. _"I am mobile," _she said into the concealed mike set into her necklace. It was not the Star of David that she normally wore – that would draw too much attention and might identify her to hostiles – and she felt a flicker of discomfort at the absence of the relic. She owned nothing else of Tali's and looked forward to the day when she could wear it again.

Once outside the hotel, she let herself mingle with the tourists on the streets outside. Today was the first opportunity that had presented itself for her to examine the safehouse itself and she was not going to let this chance go to waste, even if it meant that she would be forced into the terrible fate of having to spend three or four hours reclining on the beautiful beach to maintain her cover as a vacationing tourist.

Oh, the horrible things she had to endure for Israel. She hoped she could persevere.

By the time she arrived at the beach, Ziva had identified her CIA shadow. Today was the cute one who actually looked Hispanic; unlike his red-headed cohort, he did not stick out quite as much and cut a far more impressive figure in his swimming gear. He was also much younger and more easily distracted by the scantily-clad women around him, which worked to Ziva's benefit. By the second hour, he had become so entranced with 'chatting up' a particularly statuesque local woman that he failed to notice Ziva's discreet departure.

She located the car that he and his companion drove and used her knife on the tires. For a moment, Ziva contemplated wiggling underneath the car to cut something else that would prevent the vehicle from starting, but she decided against doing so as it would get her clothes too dirty which could cause her to stand out. Locating a small moped parked in front of a small restaurant, she hotwired it as quickly as possible and took off, hoping the owner would not immediately notice her theft. To her silent delight, another local riding a similar vehicle pounced upon the parking space without hesitation, flashing her what appeared to be an attempt at a flirtatious smile.

To her disgust, she instinctively compared the smile to Tony's and looked away.

The safehouse itself was fairly uninteresting-looking (which was the point, of course), and Ziva spent nearly twenty minutes simply observing the location to determine who was watching it. To her utter lack of surprise, she identified two different people conducting surveillance on the empty second-floor room. One of them looked to be Spanish, but the other she recognized as a Syrian operative with close ties to Islamic Jihad. He had tenuous links to the bombing of a restaurant in Haifa in October, 2003. For a heartbeat, she seriously considered neutralizing him personally; it would not be difficult. Walk up to him, smile, and strike while he was distracted. A fitting end to a man who was responsible for so much death and misery.

_Maintain your cover unless otherwise instructed_, she reminded herself as she flipped out her phone and began walking down the street. Dialing a quick number, she started speaking rapidly in Spanish even before the call had been answered, confident that the Syrian would not recognize her. Blending in here in Rota was not difficult for her, with her natural skin tone inherited from an Israeli father and a Chilean mother, and the large sunglasses she wore covered most of her face.

_"I am going to visit the store before I come home," _she said as she came abreast to the man. _"Is there anything you need me to pick up?"_ With her thumb, Ziva clicked the button on the phone to trigger the camera and heard a gratifying click. A moment later, Moshe's voice sounded in her ear, also speaking Spanish though with a very clear accent. He would need to work on that.

_"No," _he said in response. _"I have everything we need." _Ziva nodded at the coded response – he had received the photo and it was of sufficient resolution that they could pass it on to Mossad in Tel Aviv for instructions – and flipped the phone closed. She continued her unhurried walk down the cobblestone sidewalk to an open coffee bar where she took a seat and waited to be served. Her phone buzzed a mere minute later and she flipped it open to read the text message.

_Gone 2 see Juan,_ it read. _Back in 20._

Ziva smiled and signaled to the bored-looking proprietor for service.

Twenty minutes later, four cars bearing the seal of _Cuerpo Nacional de Policía _swarmed the building where the Syrian operative was lounging. Ziva waited, her eyes hidden under the sunglasses but locked on the Spanish man watching the safehouse, and the moment he stood up to join the other onlookers, she rose to her feet, dropped a moderate tip on the table, and joined the growing crowd herself.

Using the onlookers as cover, she ducked into the lower level of the safehouse, extracting the bug sweeper from her bag as she did. Clearly whoever had compromised it had also sold its existence to the Syrians and the Spaniards, but she hoped to find some hint as to identity of the person responsible. Without time to do more than a rudimentary scan, she quickly climbed rickety stairs up to the second level and the two rooms there. Both of them had beds – cots, really, that did not look remotely comfortable – but there was no immediate indication that anyone had been there recently. She found two listening devices, both inert, and dropped them into a small sealed cylinder from her bag. A pair of cigarette butts drew her notice in the second room and, with a pair of tweezers, she placed them into a plastic evidence bag since none of the principals – Michael, Paula or Tony – smoked. She gave the room another look, despite knowing that she was running out of time, and found a discarded match book; it too went into an evidence bag.

Ducking out of the safehouse, she relocated the Spanish observer and heaved a soft sigh of relief that he was still engaged in conversation with one of the local police officers. With a feigned look of bewilderment on her face, Ziva approached a woman who looked to be twice her age.

_"What is happening?" _she asked in Spanish.

_"Terrorists, I think," _the woman replied darkly. _"Probably planning on attacking the Americans on their base."_

_"It never ends," _Ziva remarked with feeling and the older woman gave her a sad nod of agreement before crossing herself in the traditional Catholic manner.

Her stolen moped was still where she left it, so Ziva took it back to the hotel where she parked it alongside the CIA car which had not yet been moved. Shaking her head in mild amusement, she returned to the beach, smirking at the fact that her young shadow was nowhere to be seen. Nor, for that matter, was the woman he had been flirting with. She wished him well and tried not to think of Tony.

Thirty minutes later, she was back in the hotel room with her admittedly minimal evidence that could very well end up leading nowhere. Still, it was better than nothing. Moshe kept his eyes lowered as Ziva paced back and forth in the small living space; their cover as newlyweds required them to share the room while Isaac and … Ari shared another room.

_"Do you have _anything?" she finally demanded, tired of the oppressive silence that had draped the room.

_"No, Officer David," _Moshe replied, his hand instinctively rubbing the cast on his leg. Ziva frowned.

_"Narrow the search parameters," _she ordered, pointing to the three evidence bags. _"There was a smoker in the safehouse," _she pointed out, _"and Officer Rivkin was the first Mossad operative to visit it in six months." _Ziva did not bother suggesting they run a DNA test as it would end up being a waste of time that they did not have. _"We need access to her computer," _she said. Moshe flinched – computer science was his specialty and he had already failed twice to penetrate Cassidy's firewall protection – but did not speak. Ziva gave him a look. _"If I get access to her apartment," _she asked, _"can you get into her files?"_

_"Yes," _he replied. At her stare, he wilted somewhat. _"I think I can," _he corrected himself. Ziva sighed.

Where was McGee when she needed him?


	26. Things Fall Apart, 26: Jethro

**A/N:** This chapter takes place mostly concurrently with the previous one. It also takes place after 4x12 "Suspicion."

Computer woes continue ... _and_ I just had to drop $500 for brake work. When it rains, it pours.

* * *

**Jethro**

The drive back to D.C. was done in almost complete silence.

At Gibbs' side in the passenger seat, Michelle Lee barely stirred, so intent was she on the open laptop sitting in her lap, though Jethro could see her glance quickly at him from time to time, as if to judge his mood. Exiled to the back seat, Brent Langer shifted and moved around, clearly uncomfortable with the limited leg space available but wise enough to keep his damned mouth shut for a change. He hadn't spoken since Gibbs ordered him to the car following word that Masoud Tarig had, in fact, died on the operating table.

The capture of the actual would-be bomb makers had done _nothing _to improve Jethro's mood.

Part of him knew that he was angry at himself for failing to pick up on Major Raines' particular line of bullshit. It never failed to infuriate him when some lowlife scumbag who didn't deserve to wear the uniform did something to taint the reputation of Jethro's beloved Corps and he fully intended to make a phone call to Commander Coleman at JAG in order to ask her to personally see to it that Raines had the book thrown at him. Twice. Faith still owed him a favor or two and he trusted her to see justice done.

Glancing in the mirror, he caught sight of Langer's profile and anger resurfaced when he reflected on the man's stupid mistake. The hair trigger of the local deputies had been one thing, but Brent … he should have known better. He had been _trained _better! Tarig might have actually survived if it had only been those idiotic Barretts shooting at him instead of an expert marksman like Langer.

His phone buzzed and Jethro grabbed it with one hand, still glowering at the mild traffic in front of him. He flipped the cell open with a practiced flick of his thumb.

"Gibbs," he answered sharply.

"Hey, Boss," McGee said. "I just spoke to Agent Fornell. He wanted to know if you were still planning on pressing charges against Deputy Barrett."

"He tampered with a federal investigation, McGee," Jethro hissed. "What do _you _think?" He snapped the phone closed and tossed it into Lee's lap. It was almost funny how she jumped, as if he had thrown a live grenade or a rattlesnake into her lap.

Almost.

"Make sure the case against Barrett is air tight," he ordered tightly. Lee gave him a quick wide-eyed look, but Gibbs ignored it. "He tried to frame an _innocent man_," Jethro growled, directing his comments less at her and more at the man in the back seat, "so I want him rotting in jail with plenty of time to think about what he did." Lee nodded.

"Gibbs…" Brent started to say, but Jethro cut him off.

"And I don't want to hear one damned word out of you," he hissed, glaring at Langer in the mirror. Brent recoiled.

But he obeyed.

The gate guards waved them through without much hesitation, and Gibbs braked harder than was absolutely necessary once they reached the motor pool. McGee was standing there, arguing with Special Agent Sacks of the FBI, but Jethro ignored the two of them as he climbed out of the Charger and slammed the door shut.

"Lee," he called out and the named agent froze in place, once more giving him a look so terrified it made him want to scream. What the hell was she doing as a field agent? "Take the stairs," Gibbs instructed as he turned his narrowed eyes upon Langer. Michelle squeaked a reply and fled to McGee's side. "With me," Jethro said coldly to Brent and headed straight for the elevator.

Once inside, Gibbs stabbed the button for the bullpen and urged the doors to close so he could have … words with Langer. Finally free from his discussion with Sacks, McGee started toward the elevator, clearly intending on join them, but Jethro discreetly shook his head. Frowning slightly, Tim slowed and, as the doors finally slid shut, Gibbs could see his senior field agent begin interrogating Lee.

"What the _hell _were you thinking?" Jethro demanded, flicking the emergency stop button and turning upon Langer. "You've been trained better than that!"

"I overreacted, okay?" Langer looked down as he began wringing his hands. "The shooting started and I overreacted."

"You _overreacted_." Fury bubbled up from within his stomach at the pathetic explanation and Gibbs fought the urge to smash Langer's head against the wall. "You overreacted," he repeated contemptuously, "and now an innocent man is _dead_."

"I wasn't the only one who shot him!" Brent said, backing away from the livid expression on Jethro's face. Gibbs dug into his jacket pocket and extracted an evidence bag.

"This is the slug that killed Mister Tarig," he said coldly as he held the bag aloft. "It's a forty caliber round." He lowered it. "Those two LEOs were firing nine millimeters. Do the damned math." Jethro shook his head in disgust. "You'll be lucky if they only take your badge for this," he said as he flipped the emergency stop button again. Turning away, he faced the elevator doors.

"The director is waiting for you," Cynthia said several minutes later as Gibbs led Langer into the office. Jethro gave her a grim nod and continued forward, shooting Brent another dark look before pulling open the doors leading into Jen's office. She was wearing a dark pants suit today – perfect for the death of a man's career – and the resolute expression on her face matched his own.

"Jethro," she said by way of greeting before shifting her gimlet eyes upon Langer. She studied him for a long, extended moment, a frown marring her lovely features. It was surprisingly effective and caused Brent to shift awkwardly where he stood, half a step away from Gibbs. "I'll need your gun and your badge, Agent Langer," Shepard said flatly. Brent nodded – he knew the drill. "Effective immediately, you will be placed on administrative leave and temporarily suspended. A review board will be convened within the week to go over your case."

"Yes, ma'am," Langer said as he pulled the badge from his belt and placed it on her desk. His Sig followed and he stood there, staring at the two objects with an unfathomable expression on his face.

"Go home," Jen ordered softly. "Cynthia will call you with the specifics about the review board." Brent nodded, glanced once in Jethro's direction as if he wanted to say something, and then left without a word, his shoulders hunched and his head hung low. Gibbs watched him depart, a dark glower on his face. He could feel the director's eyes on him and looked at her. "How bad?" she asked softly the moment Langer closed the door behind him.

"Bad," he replied. "He really screwed up. He _might _get off on a technicality, but there's no way this will be classified as an entirely righteous shooting." Shaking his head, he took a seat without asking for permission. "Worst case scenario: negligent homicide or manslaughter." Jen winced.

"And the two LEOs?" Shepard asked. Jethro snorted in disgust.

"I've got Fornell charging one of them with obstruction and evidence tampering," he said. "If Langer gets prosecuted, I want both of those two idiots for the same thing." Gibbs sighed. "_This _was why I kicked him off my team in the first place," he said. That wasn't entirely true – Langer had quit, after all, because Jethro rode him so hard – but was close enough. "Brent has always been too damned trigger happy." He closed his eyes for a heartbeat before pinning her with a look. Jen pursed her lips.

"You want to know about DiNozzo," she guessed. Gibbs nodded. "He's fine."

"I need a little more than that," Jethro said angrily, "especially if you're going to start ordering Abby to _bury_ evidence for you." His old lover flushed at that and quickly looked away, though whether it was out of embarrassment or annoyance he couldn't tell.

"He's in Tel Aviv at the moment," Jen revealed softly. "Arrived two nights ago. Everything beyond that is above your clearance level." Jethro's eyes narrowed.

"What the hell was he doing in Rome?" he demanded.

"Passing through," came the too quick response. Gibbs frowned. "He and his partner-"

"Ziva is his partner," Jethro interrupted sharply, "not this Rivkin character."

"He and his partner," Jen repeated equally harshly, "are involved in a delicate investigation that has ruffled some feathers."

"Looks like they did a little more than that to me," Gibbs said. "They killed two of these so-called terrorists."

"How do you know that?" Shepard demanded, her eyes narrowed. Jethro shrugged. He had no intention of telling her that Abby had passed that information on after receiving it from Agent Patterson; both of them were under orders to keep quiet, but loyalty to him had somehow trumped the director's orders. Still, he realized that changing the subject would ultimately be safer for everyone involved.

"What about Ziva?" he asked instead. The director's expression darkened, though Gibbs could tell that he wasn't the source of her ire in this case.

"Evidently," she said sourly, "that is above _my _clearance level." His expression must have reflected what he thought about that because Jen frowned. "I'm not lying to you, Jethro," she said. "I don't know where she is or what she's doing."

"She's in Spain," Gibbs said after a moment of consideration. Shepard's eyes widened and she gave him a surprised look. "She … hinted that she might be going there when I talked to her right before she left."

"You're better informed than I am, Jethro," Jen remarked wryly. She sighed. "I'll keep trying," she said. "I'm supposed to have a conference call with Leon and Director David tomorrow about an upcoming joint operation," she continued, "and will push Eli for word about her." Shepard gave him a smile. "Satisfied?"

"I'd be satisfied," Gibbs replied as he pushed himself to his feet, "if I could actually trust the person watching DiNozzo's six."

"You mean Ziva's six," the director corrected softly. Jethro blinked slowly. Damn. He _had _said Tony's name.

"Both of them," he said. "I meant both of them." He swept out of the office, cursing himself for the momentary lapse.

He was getting too old for this job.


	27. Things Fall Apart, 27: Tony

**A/N:** This chapter takes place mostly concurrently with the next two. It also takes place a little before 4x13 "Sharif Returns."

Fraking computer issues, job hunting woes and general indifference (thanks, Season 6) continue to delay this. I'm currently stalled out on chapter 34 but am still _trying._

* * *

**Tony**

Tel Aviv at night was stunning.

From where he stood before the large window of his hotel room, Tony had a magnificent view of the city's skyline and, even to a jaded cosmopolitan such as himself, it was striking. Lights glittered like thousands of tiny stars, twinkling and flickering in an almost hypnotic pattern that made it difficult to look away. Even the subtle smells in the air were different than what DiNozzo was accustomed to, and he breathed them in with a slight smile, only afterward realizing what (or, more accurately, _who_) they reminded him of. The heat of the day was finally beginning to wane, but it was still pleasantly warm. For the first time, he truly understood why Ziva was so attached to her homeland. Since accepting this undercover assignment, he had been in Israel for a sum total of six weeks (three time longer than he'd been in Rota) and _already_ he was falling in love with this country.

Damn these Israelis and their beautiful city.

"I would not stand in front of the window if I were you, Anthony." The stern voice of Director David caused Tony to half turn from the window, his face suddenly hot as he realized how easily the older man had snuck up on him. DiNozzo's movements were still awkward – his left leg was so thoroughly wrapped with gauze bandages that it was hard to move sometimes – but there was no pain for a change.

Dressed in a sharp-looking suit, Eli David stood just inside the foyer of the hotel room, an amused expression on his face as he took in Tony's stance before the window. Michael Rivkin was a step behind the Mossad director and flashed a bright grin before closing the door, leaving DiNozzo alone with Eli.

"You are looking well," the director remarked as he studied Tony for a moment.

"Thank you, sir," Tony said as he limped across the carpeted floor to the mini-bar. "Can I get you something, Director?" he asked, gesturing toward the well stocked (and still untouched) array of alcohol.

"No," Eli replied. "I do not drink."

"Dammit," DiNozzo murmured. "I knew that." Ziva had mentioned her father's avoidance of liquor in all forms once when they were comparing their respective upbringings one night while three sheets to the wind. She always won, though that was probably because Tony had kept some of the darker moments of his life a secret. At least this way Eli had never gotten so drunk he mistook his daughter for a punching bag.

"You did?" Director David asked. He took a seat on the edge of the hotel bed and gave Tony a wry smile. "I was unaware that my drinking habits were common knowledge." It was said in such a way that it left no doubt in Tony's mind that this man knew about the convoluted relationship DiNozzo once had with Ziva.

"Your daughter may have mentioned it once," Tony muttered. He quickly hobbled over to the desk chair and dropped into it with a sigh. "How can I help you, sir?" he quickly asked, hoping that they could get this over with. Eli David made him nervous for all sorts of reasons, some of which made perfect sense (he _was _the director of Mossad, after all, one of the most feared and respected intelligence organizations in the world) and others that had more … intimate connotations revolving around the man's daughter. Whenever they were alone like this, Tony always felt like Eli was about to ask him what his intentions were with Ziva, despite the fact that she had probably only been acting on orders when she took him to her bed.

"Michael gave me your proposal, Anthony," David said with a knowing smile. "He was quite eloquent, but I want to hear it from you." Tony wet his lips.

"Yes, sir." He drew in a deep breath. "Our investigation has hit a dead end here, sir," DiNozzo said. "Even the cell phone turned out to be a bust so we've got next to nothing to go on."

"And you think a visit to Moscow will provide you with additional leads?"

"Viggo Drantyev is the key," Tony pointed out. "The GRU is after him just like we are."

"The Russians are not likely to give up this information willingly," Eli said calmly, "especially since it would require releasing classified data."

"Then we'll have to be persuasive," Tony argued. "You and Director Shepard brought me into this because I'm a good investigator." He shrugged. "Well, unless we get lucky, this is the only way I can think of that will get us the information we need for a breakthrough." The Mossad director was silent and DiNozzo took it as a hint to continue his pitch. "We need information on Drantyev that we can't get anywhere else," he said. "Aliases, known associates, hobbies, the address of his crippled old mother if we can find it." David smirked slightly at the statement but did not interrupt. "Until we can build a better profile of this guy," Tony said, "there's next to no chance that we're going to catch his boss unless she decides to make a monumentally stupid decision."

"You will be placing yourself into the line of fire once more," the director said. Tony grinned.

"That's why Michael will be along," he said, "to watch my six." His smile faltered under Director David's steady, unwavering gaze, and DiNozzo quickly glanced away. "We're out of options, sir," he stated carefully. "These people are smart, well equipped and know what they're doing." Eli nodded slowly.

"And the other matter?" he asked. "You truly want to bring the CIA into this?"

"Want to?" Tony repeated. "No. Need to, yes. They have resources that both NCIS and Mossad don't." Eli frowned at the unstated implication his organization was inferior to the American intelligence organization and DiNozzo sighed internally. "I know you don't want to hear that, sir," he said cautiously, "but it's true. We need them if we're going to bust this organization open."

"I will … speak with Director Shepard," Eli decided. "I had hoped we could avoid involving Langley. They are so often…"

"Assholes?" Tony offered with a smile. David laughed out loud.

"Not the phrase I would have used," he said, "but accurate, I think." His good humor faltered. "I am only telling you this because you have earned my trust, Anthony," Eli said after a moment, "but I do not think we can rely on the CIA to be honest with us."

"No offense, Director," DiNozzo said with a smirk, "but _nobody _trusts you spies." Again, Director David laughed, though this was more of a resigned-sounding chuckle.

"An occupational hazard, I am afraid," he replied as he stood. "No, my concern regarding the CIA is due to some troubling reports I have read that indicate Langley is conducting its own operation within this arms network. They have at least one operative very close to René Benoit and all of the evidence suggests they might be using him."

"For what?" Tony asked with a frown. Director David shrugged.

"That, I do not know," he said. "I will authorize your trip to Moscow," he decided after a moment of thought. "You and Michael will be issued cover identities … Canadian journalists, I think."

"I can do that, eh," Tony said with an overly dramatic faux accent and a bright smile. He had fond memories of the McKenzie brothers and _Strange Brew_. "Does this mean I can call Michael a hoser, eh?"

"This is not a joke, Anthony," Eli said. "I need you to take this seriously." DiNozzo's smile faded slightly, but it didn't fade entirely.

"I _do _take it seriously, Director," he said. He pushed himself out of the chair, wincing only slightly. "This is how I cope," Tony added calmly. "Michael and Ziva have their Krag Maga," he continued, "Gibbs has his stupid boat, you have the synagogue, and I have my jokes. It's how I survive, how I avoid becoming callous."

"Like what my son became," the Mossad director said softly, his eyes momentarily distant. He studied Tony for a moment. "Most people," he added with a knowing smirk, "are unaware of my visits to the synagogue. For security reasons, you understand." Tony swallowed and looked away, unwilling to admit the source of that information. Eli shook his head. "That girl is going to be the death of me someday," he said as he walked to the door. "I would pack warm," the Mossad director added as he opened the door. "In my experience, Moscow is cold this time of year."

"You live in the Middle East, sir," DiNozzo shot back. "Most places on the planet are cold to you."

"True," Eli conceded with a nod as he gave Michael a nod. "Officer Rivkin will coordinate with you regarding your cover identities," he said. "Good luck, Anthony."

A moment later, he was gone.

"Canadians, eh?" Tony asked in the exaggerated accent as Michael closed the door of the hotel room. He was unworried about being overheard – this entire floor of the Crowne Plaza belonged to Mossad, though that was a closely guarded secret.

"Shut up, you hoser," Rivkin replied in a surprisingly good imitation of Doug McKenzie, setting his briefcase atop the bed as he spoke. Tony's eyes bugged at hearing the words tumble from his partner's lips; he didn't think the man was even capable of making a joke! "We'll fly out of Tel Aviv in one week," Michael said. "That should give your leg plenty of time to heal." He opened the case and began extracting documents. "Our route will take us to London," he said, "where we will disappear off the grid for two days and resurface under our new covers."

"Just us? No back-up?" Tony asked as he accepted his false passports and began flipping through them. He shook his head in mild surprise – there were even faded stamps from "previous" overseas trips. There was no way that these had been made only recently; it looked like Director David had already decided to approve their Russian trip long before he even bothered visiting the hotel.

"Dana is on assignment, if that is what you mean," Michael said with a smile, "so you will not have to worry about forgetting her name again." DiNozzo flinched.

"I told you," he insisted, "that was an accident." Rivkin shook his head.

"_Once_ is an accident," he said. "Twice is a pattern. Three times … three times is twisting a barbed knife in her stomach and perhaps pouring salt into the wound." Michael chuckled. "It was a most effective way to convince her to leave you alone, however," he remarked with visible approval. Tony forced a smile on his face, hoping that Rivkin wouldn't realize that it was faked. He really _hadn't _meant to call Dana by Ziva's name a third time, but when the phone call from Mossad headquarters woke him at three in the damned morning, a mere two hours after he got to sleep in the first place, she had sounded so much like Ziva that his sleep-deprived brain thought he was back in D.C. It had been simple reflex, nothing malicious. "You are either the bravest man I know," Michael said, "or the most foolish."

"Six of one," Tony replied, "half a dozen of the other." He tossed the passport and press credentials onto the bed and collapsed in the chair. A dull ache throbbed through his leg and he instinctively rubbed the bandages still wrapped around the healing gunshot wound. The Mossad physicians who had treated it told him he should be back to normal within the week. _Just in time to visit Moscow in mid October,_ Tony reflected with a shake of his head. Lovely.

"You should get some rest," Michael said, closing the briefcase and straightening. "I will be here at zero four to take you to headquarters so we can look at the files again."

"Wonderful," DiNozzo muttered. When Ziva had once told him that mornings with Mossad began at five in the morning, he thought she had been exaggerating. Tony didn't bother getting up from the chair as Rivkin headed for the door.

After Michael left, Tony sat silently in the desk chair for nearly thirty minutes, his mind turning over the events of the day and the coming mission. He suddenly realized how badly he missed D.C., how much he wanted to be sitting in the bullpen flirting with Ziva or tormenting McGee, how viscerally he hated his current assignment. _I'm a detective,_ he reminded himself, _not a damned spy. _

Blowing out a deep breath, he pushed himself out of the chair and walked to the nearby window where he could watch the city come alive. After a few minutes, his leg began to hurt, so Tony slid the chair over and took a seat. His mind raced and, before he knew it, he was fiddling with his cell phone. It was a clean number, one that ostensibly couldn't be traced, though he suspected the NSA would argue the point. The keypad lit up as he flipped the phone open and he stared at it for a long moment before letting his fingers punch out a number he knew by heart. He hung up before the call could actually connect and tossed the cell aside. Right now, he needed to focus on the mission ahead of him, not on a woman who had made it clear that his opinion was worth exactly squat. It was strange, Tony reflected, that he seemed to get along better with her father these days than he did with Ziva herself. He leaned back in the chair and stared at the skyline of Tel Aviv.

He was still sitting there when Michael knocked on his door at four a.m.


	28. Things Fall Apart, 28: Ziva

**A/N:** This chapter takes place mostly concurrently with the previous. It also takes place a little before 4x13 "Sharif Returns."

RL continues to slow this. I know _where _I want to go; the Muse is simply uncooperative for some reason. And, in response to the question 'will Tony & Ziva reunite,' the answer is yes. They will reunite (along with the rest of the team) near the end of this first part ("Things Fall Apart") which is still a number of chapters away.

* * *

**Ziva**

Sneaking onto the naval base turned out to be far easier than she expected.

Wearing an officer's uniform and possession of an expertly forged identification card provided her with the proper look, but a year plus of investigating crimes for NCIS had armed Ziva with an understanding of the jargon that would have otherwise been incomprehensible and did more to convince the gate guards – Spanish locals who worked for the _Guardia Civil_ rather than U.S. Marines as would normally be responsible for protection for American naval bases– that she was who she appeared to be than just the ID. For some reason, though, she doubted that Gibbs would be amused to learn that he had managed to turn her into an even _more _effective intelligence operative than before.

The senior of the two finally handed her identification back.

"You may proceed, Lieutenant Fernandez," he said in heavily accented English, and Ziva gave him a bored-looking nod – this was all supposed to be routine for her, after all. "Make sure to get an updated vehicle placard," the _Guardia Civil _officer added as he scribbled something on his clipboard, likely noting the time he allowed her onto the base. It was a paper trail, but an unavoidable one, which was why she had selected U.S. Navy Lieutenant (O-3) Maria Fernandez as her cover. Stationed in Naples, Italy, the lieutenant was – according to Mossad intelligence – currently on leave with her new fiancé somewhere in the middle of France. Apart from dark hair and eyes, Fernandez looked nothing like Ziva, which was why she had chosen this, the busiest moment of the day, to make her insertion. They would be too busy to recall specifics, only that a brunette bearing the proper identification and speaking with a slight accent had been given permission to enter.

From the gate, Ziva drove the 'borrowed' car – surely the Central Intelligence Agency did not mind her using it for a few hours – directly to the Navy Exchange or NEX, which doubled as a supermarket and a large, department store for personnel assigned to the Naval Air Station. Her cover – a fancy name for the hat that was part of her uniform – in place, she hefted her gym bag and slung it over her left shoulder. The right arm needed to be free to return salutes in the American fashion which was slightly different from the way she had been taught during her years in the IDF. Consulting her mental map, she abandoned the car and headed in the direction of her target.

She made good time, despite being on foot, and drew no more attention than any other Navy officer. The BOQ – Bachelor's Officer's Quarters – that was her destination was several kilometers away from the NEX, but the meandering route Ziva took doubled the distance. One she was satisfied that she was not being pursued, she headed straight for the small apartment complex. Picking the lock of the front door took all of twenty seconds but her breath caught the moment she opened the front door and heard the distinct beeping that could only be from an alarm system. She paused at the keypad before taking a gamble and inputting a code she had memorized months earlier.

The alarm deactivated and Ziva shook her head silently in recrimination: he knew better.

It was immediately clear that Tony had not spent much time in this apartment, though given the general low quality of the quarters and DiNozzo's tastes she wasn't that surprised. Unpacked boxes were stacked haphazardly in the living room and the refrigerator was completely empty. The entire apartment had a stale taste to the air completely absent of the smell she had grown to associate with Anthony DiNozzo. If she had not already known that Tony was on an undercover assignment, the fact that he was living in this … hole would have made her suspect it. A flashing light drew her attention to the answering machine half-buried underneath an old copy of GSM.

"It's me," Paula Cassidy's tired sounding voice said after Ziva pressed the play button. "Give me a call as soon as you get in. The cell number you gave me isn't working. And I'm tired of being your damned secretary, DiNozzo. Next time David or Stavi calls, I'm going to tell them how to get ahold of you." Ziva flinched at Dana's name before biting her lip.

"Special Agent DiNozzo," a male voice said, "this is Petty Officer Michael Hawking of the Base Hospital. I'm calling to confirm your appointment for your annual physical examination." Ziva hit the forward button.

"Anthony," Doctor Mallard's voice stated, causing Ziva to freeze in place. _Ducky _knew how to get in touch with him and did not tell her? "I am returning your call, though it appears I have unfortunately missed you once again. Mother is doing well – thank you for asking. Please give me a call whenever you get the opportunity."

"Tony, it's me." The voice was of a woman, though Ziva did not immediately recognize who it was. "Gibbs told us they released you from the hospital today," the woman continued, "and we're all wondering why you aren't answering our calls. Abby wants to celebrate … I mean, it's not every day that we have drinks with someone who just survived the plague!" Ziva's breath caught as she realized who this woman had to be: Caitlin Todd. "Give me a call, DiNozzo," the ghost from the past said. "You've got my number."

There were no more messages, and Ziva stared momentarily at the machine before turning away. Her anger at Doctor Mallard dwindled rapidly as she realized that she was allowing herself to be distracted by the mission at hand. _Deal with this later, _she told herself as she blinked away her annoyance at Ducky.

Nearly ten minutes passed before her cell phone buzzed. She flipped the phone open and glanced at the text message she'd just received from Isaac. Making sure that Special Agent Cassidy was not in her home when Ziva broke in had been an easier task than expected, although it had required Isaac and … Ari to implement their part of the operation. Ten kilos of heroin – purchased from dealers in Jerez de la Frontera who later suffered an unfortunate case of terminal lead poisoning – had been stashed in a locker at one of the base gyms and called in. Isaac had the assignment of following Cassidy and letting Ziva know when the NCIS investigative team arrived. And Ziva's decision to wait here at DiNozzo's apartment had absolutely nothing to do with her hopes that she could find a contact number for him. None whatsoever.

She sighed. Even to her own ears it sounded like a poor excuse.

Returning the cell to her pocket, she let herself out of Tony's apartment, arming the security system and locking the door behind her. The walk to Agent Cassidy's apartment was a short one – she and Tony were virtually neighbors, a fact that Ziva tried not to think about given the past relationship between the two. Cassidy's lock was even easier to pick and the woman had not even armed the rudimentary security system.

The moment Ziva stepped into the small duplex, she caught the distinctive smell of old cigarette smoke. According to the information Mossad had on her, Agent Cassidy was not a smoker, so all of Ziva's instincts began clamoring that she was on the verge of a breakthrough. Three agonizingly long weeks and all it took was a bit of B&E. She wanted to scream.

She spent as little time in the apartment as possible. Even with the rubber gloves on her hands, Ziva knew that DNA could be obtained if Cassidy realized her home had been broken into. Using the camera in her cell phone, she took several snapshots of the photos arrayed throughout the small duplex. One in particular drew her attention – a candid picture of Cassidy and a Hispanic-looking man, it appeared to have been taken at a local bar. The presence of a lit cigarette in the man's left hand drew immediate notice, and, after taking a picture of the framed photograph, Ziva spent several long minutes searching the apartment for any discarded cigarette butts. Though she was not a smoker herself, she had spent enough time around them to know that they generally had a preference for a certain brand.

_Got you, _she thought when she located a mostly empty ash tray in the bedroom. One of the butts matched those she had found at the safehouse a week earlier. The closet yielded an ever greater find: the uniform of a paramedic complete with name badge. She snapped a quick photo of the badge and gave the room a quick once-over, relying on her eidetic memory to note any discrepancies from the way it had been when she entered. Finding none, she exited the apartment, locking the door behind her. She was halfway back to the NEX when her phone buzzed.

"Yes?" she answered, using English as a sign of what language her caller should use.

"Isaac needs a ride," Moshe told her without preamble, and Ziva bit back a curse at the code. The idiot had been made and apprehended by base personnel. She had warned him to stop acting the fool while on surveillance duty. Two scathing reprimands were already in his personnel folder from this assignment alone for sloppy field work and a third could very well scuttle his career in Mossad.

"Cannot his brother pick him up?" she asked.

"He has … car trouble," Moshe replied, the code implying that … Ari was not sure if he could act without breaking cover. Ziva winced at the realization that the boy bearing her half-brother's name was the only one of the three who showed a hint of competency.

"Then call his mother," she snapped before hanging up. Tel Aviv would be … displeased to know that this entire operation may have been compromised due to a single fool. It would rebound negatively upon her as well, and she wondered briefly if Officer Bashan had hand-selected these three idiots. What better way to revenge himself than to force her to work with a trio of infants who would sabotage the mission with their inexperience? It did not seem to be his style, though, and she discarded the notion for the time being.

A pair of uniformed Marines circled the car she had borrowed like vultures and, without breaking stride, Ziva altered her direction slightly and entered the navy exchange. Not having a vehicle would certainly complicate matters, but not impossibly so. She smirked at a sudden memory: her and Tony breaking into a car together and his desperate attempt to prove himself in front of her. Things had been so much simpler back then.

"Navy whites look good on you, Officer David," a soft voice said from behind her. Ziva barely reacted as she continued her slow walk to the fast food restaurant inside the building. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the man speaking – it was the red-headed CIA operative, though he too was wearing a Navy uniform. He gave her slight nod, but said nothing else until they had ordered their food – Ziva bought the chicken nuggets, though she actually doubted there was much _real _chicken in them – and taken a seat at a small booth near the back wall.

"You know my name," she said softly, "but I am afraid I do not know yours." That was a lie – Mossad had already identified him as Rolland Baldwin, a graduate of Tulane University, father of three, who was still happily married to his high school sweetheart – but was as good a place to start as any.

"Baldwin," he said with a tight smile, "though I'm sure you already knew that." He sipped from his cup, eyes never leaving hers. "Anything you'd like to share?" he asked calmly.

"As a matter of fact," Ziva replied, "there is. NCIS just apprehended one of my operatives." Baldwin's eyebrows lifted slightly, but he did not interrupt. "If you could," she said, "I would like the record of his arrest to vanish."

"Tall order," Baldwin said. "And in return?" Ziva flashed a smile.

"I will not slash your tires again," she offered.

"Why are you in Rota?" the CIA operative asked after a moment.

"Sight-seeing," Ziva replied smoothly. "And you?"

"Something similar," he said. "Are you looking for anything in particular? Or some_one_?"

"Should I be?" she retorted. Baldwin leaned back in the uncomfortable plastic chair clearly meant for someone half his size and frowned.

"We won't allow you to … sanction an American citizen," he said softly. "The way those amateurs Mossad saddled you with have been sniffing around Agent Cassidy lately makes me and my bosses … twitchy." Ziva did not react as she finished the last of the nuggets, but her mind was racing. Her instincts told her that she could trust this man … well, as far as she could trust _any _CIA agent. His record spoke only of honesty and integrity, a patriot who had joined Central Intelligence out of a deep love for his country and a desire to serve. _Follow your instincts, _a voice seemed to murmur in her ear, though she could not say whether it sounded like Gibbs or Tony.

"I do not think that she is the problem, Mister Baldwin," Ziva revealed. "My investigation is not complete, but I suspect someone may be using her to gain intelligence without her knowledge."

"Does this someone have a name?" Baldwin wondered.

"Not yet," she replied. The CIA agent studied her for a moment.

"And if your investigation reveals that this someone _is _using her?" he asked. She smiled sweetly.

"I plan to remove the threat," Ziva said simply. He shook his head.

"Not good enough," Baldwin said. "You get me the name and we'll take care of it from there." His eyes crinkled as he half smiled. "My price for getting your idiot out of jail," he added.

"Deal," Ziva decided instantly. This would be the best for everyone involved; a threat would be neutralized and Mossad would maintain its anonymity. She started to stand.

"By the way," he added as he followed suit, "good job on Mahmoud Atassi. We didn't even know he was in-country." Ziva gave him a flat smile as she bussed her tray.

"I have no idea of what you speak," she said wryly. Baldwin nodded, a smirk on his face.

"Happy hunting," he told her as he turned away. Ziva thought of the photos she had taken of the Spanish paramedic and smiled tightly.

She suddenly had a very positive feeling about this mission.


	29. Things Fall Apart, 29: Tim

**A/N:** This chapter takes place mostly concurrently with the previous. It also takes place a little after 4x13 "Sharif Returns."

Woot! I have successfully plotted out the rest of "Things Fall Apart." It will be 50 chapters in total and, as of publication of this chapter, 42 (!) of them are complete (I've been really busy the last two days.) Buckle up ... this home stretch (final 20 chapters) is going to be (hopefully) tense!

* * *

**Tim**

The rhythmic beep of the heart monitor was driving him crazy.

Fighting the urge to groan, Tim shifted awkwardly in the uncomfortable chair, his eyes fixed on the unmoving form of his boss. According to the doctors, Gibbs was going to make a full recovery from the chemical agent that he had been poisoned with by Mamoun Sharif but, at the moment, the supervisory special agent was slumbering away, sleeping the sleep of the heavily medicated and would remain in the medically induced coma for at least another day. McGee had seen firsthand how out of it his boss had been when the paramedics arrived, and he didn't think he'd ever forget the expression of muted terror that had been stamped on Director Shepard's face when she arrived here at Bethesda. No matter what either of them might say, it was pretty clear to Tim that the director still had feelings for his boss.

"Oh, Timothy," Doctor Mallard said as he entered the hospital room. "I did not know you were still here."

"The director asked me to keep an eye on Gibbs," McGee said with a jaw-cracking yawn. He couldn't remember the last time he slept for longer than a few hours; it had to be three or four days ago, maybe longer. "Just in case Sharif had any associates we didn't know about."

"A sensible precaution," Ducky remarked as he pulled the clipboard off the end of Gibbs' bed and began flipping through the papers. "I am rather surprised that Colonel Mann did not leave a few of her soldiers here for similar reasons."

"I think she tried," Tim remarked. He stretched in his seat, wincing at the pops that resulted. Mallard gave him a sidelong glance. "The director overruled her though. Army CID has no jurisdiction here in Bethesda." McGee almost laughed at the memory of the two women squaring off over the unconscious Gibbs as if they were hostile cats squabbling over what they considered their territory. He'd almost been tempted to suggest they take it to the boxing ring before realizing what an unbelievably stupid (and possibly career ending) thing that would be to say.

If Tony were here, though, Tim suspected he'd have said it anyway.

"That sounds like it was something to see," Ducky said. "You know," he began after a moment of consideration, "this reminds me of a time I was in New York working with the United Nations. One of my associates at the time was a man named Napoleon…"

Tim tuned out the rest of the story, though he made every attempt to present the appearance of actually listening. The urge to just close his eyes and go to sleep grew with every passing second, and Ducky's soothing voice only made things worse. If he didn't know better, McGee would have thought the doctor was doing it on purpose, pitching his voice in such a way as to be almost hypnotic. The second time his head jerked up, startling himself out of a light doze, he found Doctor Mallard standing by the door, watching him.

"You need some rest, my boy," the doctor said. "You are working yourself into an early grave, Timothy, and won't do Jethro any good if you end up sharing a bed next to him."

"Somebody has to watch his back, Ducky," Tim said. He sighed. "And I promised Tony that I'd keep an eye on the team for him." Mallard's eyes narrowed and, for a moment, reminded McGee of a bird of prey.

"You've spoken with Anthony?" he asked cautiously. Tim shrugged.

"Sort of," he admitted. "I got an email from him a week or so ago," he said. A smile crossed his lips as he recalled the words of the message.

_DiNardo?_ it had read. _Seriously, Probie, if I wasn't so damned busy, I'd hop a flight to D.C. and kick your ass. Next time I see you, you owe me a lot of beer for the crap I've had to take because of this thing. Stay safe. I'm depending on you to watch their sixes._

Abby's well reasoned theory about Tony being on an undercover assignment had led McGee to backtrace the email's IP address despite his better instincts. Although it initially led straight back to Rota, implying that DiNozzo _wasn't _on some sort of super secret covert mission, there were some major inconsistencies with the routing of the email that had caused Tim to start poking deeper. Almost the moment he started to run the deeper trace, though, all sorts of alarms had gone off and, before he knew what was happening, a massive cyber attack had nearly shut down his system. He'd managed to redirect the hackers to the NSA networks – let the geeks at Fort Meade deal with this, Tim had thought – with a bit of fancy electronic footwork that was not entirely legal, but the cyber attack left him as in the dark as before. Sure, it seemed to confirm Abby's theory (why else would someone go to so much trouble to hide where Tony really was?), but he still didn't have a clue where DiNozzo was hiding.

Blinking, Tim realized he had been staring at the wall without actually seeing it for several quiet minutes. Ducky was watching him carefully, a compassionate expression on his face. The doctor smiled.

"You won't do Anthony any good if you put yourself in the hospital, Timothy," Ducky stated calmly. "Go home for a few hours," he added. "Get some rest."

"I can't," McGee replied. "Not until I know he's safe."

"I'll handle that for a few hours," Director Shepard announced as she swept into the room. She had changed her clothes and looked more like a field agent than the director of a federal agency. Giving Ducky a nod of greeting, she focused on Tim, frowning at his appearance. McGee shifted self-consciously. "When was the last time you slept?" the director asked.

"It's been a while," Tim admitted sheepishly. He'd been running on empty for so long that he barely remembered what it felt like to be fully rested. The combination of overwork, stress and lack of sleep had played havoc with his appetite of late. At first, he'd been pleased at the resulting loss of weight, but in recent weeks, both Jeanne and Sarah had started pestering him to eat more. Even Abby had been pushing unhealthy, sugary snacks into his face every time he visited her lab.

"You rode with Jethro in the ambulance, didn't you?" Ducky asked. It took McGee a long moment to realize the question had been aimed in his direction and he nodded, yawning as he did. "Then I shall drive you back to the office," the doctor decided.

"Thanks," Tim said as he began gathering his gear. His laptop went into the hardened backpack and he double-checked the safety on his Sig before it too went into the pack. He could feel the director and Ducky watching him.

"May we have a moment, Doctor Mallard?" the director asked a moment later and Tim instinctively flinched. For the last few weeks, she had not bothered him for 'status' reports about his relationship with Jeanne and he'd almost allowed himself to forget her crazy obsession or how he was lying to everyone he knew. The ball of stress that swam in his stomach grew larger.

"Of course," Ducky said after a moment of hesitation. His eyes were narrowed as he headed for the door. "I'll wait for you outside, Timothy," he added.

"I spoke with Jethro's doctor," Shepard said once Mallard was gone. "Gibbs is going to be bedridden for at least the next two weeks." Tim winced at that and began making plans to be somewhere else when his boss found out about that. "Are you ready to lead the team, McGee?"

"No, ma'am, I'm not," Tim replied instantly. He was barely managing to do just the senior field agent's job – there was no way in hell that he could do Gibbs' job too, not with just him and Agent Lee on the team right now. To his surprise, the director smiled.

"Thank you for being honest," she said. "A lot of agents would have jumped at this chance, even if they weren't ready." McGee sighed in relief. "I'll have your team rotated to stand-down status," Shepard decided. "That should let you and Lee catch your breath while Jethro is recovering." She flashed him a bright smile. "And _I'll _be the one who tells him, so you can breathe a little easier."

"Thank you, Director," McGee said.

"Do you have anything to report on the other matter?" she asked and Tim grimaced. _Apart from the fact that I haven't seen my girlfriend in four days because of this damned job? _his conscience demanded sullenly, sounding far too much like Tony. _Or that I'm actually glad because I hate lying to her?_

"No, ma'am," he said instead. Shepard frowned.

"I need you to keep your head clear, McGee," she said flatly. "If you're not able to do that, you need to tell me." His temper flared and all of the accumulated stress over the lies and deception of the past few months momentarily ripped away his common sense.

"_I _didn't ask to get involved in this damned mission in the first place, Director," Tim snapped sharply. He didn't bother waiting for her to give him permission to leave as he stormed from Gibbs' room. Doctor Mallard was in deep conversation with one of the residents, but broke it off quickly and joined McGee in front of the elevator. To Tim's silent relief, Ducky didn't say anything until they climbed into his Morgan.

"I haven't seen much of you lately, Timothy," Mallard said. "No time to visit autopsy?"

"You know how Gibbs is," Tim replied with another jaw-cracking yawn. "It's been worse since Langer … well, since then."

"He _has _been more driven recently," Ducky acknowledged. "Do you know," he began a few moments later, "this reminds me of a time when I was in Middle East with the British SAS…" Tim closed his eyes.

A tap on his shoulder some time later – it could have been minutes or hours – caused McGee to jolt awake. He gave a bemused looking Doctor Mallard a sheepish smile before climbing out of the car.

"Sorry, Ducky," Tim mumbled. "I must have dozed off."

"My dear boy, you were snoring," the doctor remarked with a broad smile. "Are you sure that I can't simply drive you home? It really isn't a bother."

"No," McGee said, "I'm okay." As if to belie the comment, he yawned again. "I'll be fine, Ducky," he insisted, hoping that repetition would make it so. "Thanks for the ride."

"Make sure you get something to eat before you go to bed, Timothy," Ducky ordered as he started the engine of his car once more. "As I've told Jethro numerous times," he added, "stress and coffee are a poor replacement for actual food." McGee chuckled and nodded, hoping that for once, his appetite would actually make an appearance.

He was two steps out of the elevator when he caught sight of the woman loitering around his desk. She was Ziva's height and possessed the same slim build, with nearly identical hair and features similar enough that she almost looked to be the absent Israeli woman's sister. At his approach, she half-turned and Tim caught sight of a Star of David necklace at her throat.

"Special Agent McGee?" she asked, and Tim nodded at the familiar-sounding accent. "Dana Stavi, Mossad," his visitor said. McGee's exhausted brain short-circuited and he blurted out the first thing that occurred to him.

"Oh, God," he said, "Ziva sent you to kill me." The woman in front of him laughed.

"If she wanted you dead," Officer Stavi said, "I am sure the _sultry _Mossad liaison Lisa Dahan would kill you herself." Her smile brightened at Tim's expression.

"You've read _Deep Six,_" he realized.

"I think most of Mossad has read _Deep Six_," she replied with a grin. "And all of us _adore _the _sultry _Lisa Dahan," Stavi added with a snicker that threatened to turn into a full blown giggle. Tim swallowed.

"She _is _going to kill me," he muttered before blinking away the moment. "How can I help you, Officer Stavi?" he asked, fighting to keep from yawning again. The Mossad officer's smile vanished and, within the span of a single heartbeat, she transformed into a complete professional.

"I am looking for Director Shepard," she said, "but no one can tell me where she is." Stavi pinned him with a look he recognized as identical to the 'tell me now, dammit!' one that Ziva used during interrogations.

"Can this wait until tomorrow?" he asked, already knowing the answer. He could see the chances of him getting to sleep dwindling away.

"I am afraid not," the Mossad officer answered. "I am carrying time sensitive information with explicit instructions from Tel Aviv to see her as soon as I arrive." Tim sighed.

"She's at Bethesda," he said. "Let me get some coffee and I'll take you to her." Shaking his head, he turned away and led her toward the break room where he hoped to find some of Gibbs' industrial-strength coffee-flavored motor oil.

Sleep was overrated anyway.


	30. Things Fall Apart, 30: Tony

**A/N:** This chapter takes place mostly concurrently with the next couple of chapters. It also takes place a little before 4x14 "Blowback."

Happy Independence Day to my fellow Americans!

* * *

**Tony**

Moscow was _cold._

Tony had been in worse conditions – a stupid family trip when he was seven to the middle of Nowhere, Canada (Population 3, plus or minus a half dozen animals) still held the dubious … honor of being the coldest he'd ever been – but the capital of Russia was far from comfortable since, only days earlier, he'd been basking in temperatures around mid to low seventies (Fahrenheit, of course; he was still having trouble comprehending the whole Celsius thing). A drop of thirty-five to forty degrees was such a physical shock that DiNozzo just couldn't quite stop shivering. He was bundled up in a thick coat that easily concealed the bulletproof vest he was wearing underneath his shirt, as well as the shoulder holster carrying his Sig. At his right ankle, a backup revolver was hidden and Tony had secreted four different blades of various shapes and sizes upon his person. In total, he was carrying over a hundred bullets – three speed-load cylinders (18 rounds) for the backup were in two different pockets, and six spare magazines each with a fifteen round capacity for the Sig were within easy reach.

It was, after all, just another day at the office.

"Remind me again," he muttered to his companion sourly, "why we couldn't do this _indoors?"_ Dressed similarly – though with at least one extra layer, Tony noticed smugly – Michael Rivkin smirked as he sipped from the steaming cup he held in one hand. The small outdoor café they were seated in appeared no different from one they might have visited in another European country apart from the Cyrillic letters that dominated the signs. A dozen or so customers were scattered around the open air coffee shop, chatting on cell phones or arguing current events with one another. None of them paid him or Michael much attention, and Tony couldn't help but notice that most were wearing only light jackets. Several of them were even wearing short-sleeves and seemed untouched by the weather. It didn't seem fair.

"Because," Rivkin replied, his own lips turning downward in annoyance as he shivered, "then I would not get the opportunity to listen to you complain about the weather." He flashed Tony a smile that was more of a grimace and drained his cup of coffee. "This is the part they do not tell you about in training," Michael grumbled. Despite himself, DiNozzo snickered.

"Yeah," he agreed. "Dunno about you," he added, "but I signed up for blondes, beaches and the right to carry a gun." Rivkin smirked.

"You mean brunettes, I think," he corrected with a wry glint in his eyes. He nodded sharply to the left and Tony tensed at the slow approach of an ordinary-looking man in a suit and carrying a briefcase. DiNozzo's initial assessment was 'pencil pusher,' but he'd learned to not judge a man by his appearance in the last few weeks. For all he knew, this guy was the Russian equivalent of Léon, the cleaner played by Jean Reno in _The Professional._

"I am Vasily," the man declared in heavily accented English as he joined them at their table. Up close, Tony could see the strain in the man's eyes – he looked exhausted and more than a little scared.

"You may call me Eli," Michael announced. His left hand remained underneath the table where Tony knew he was gripping a pistol. When the Russian gave DiNozzo a glance, Tony ignored it and kept his eyes on the street, grateful that the mirrored sunglasses he was wearing concealed his own eyes from view.

"What you have asked for," Vasily said after a long moment, "was not easy to acquire." He placed his briefcase on the ground and pushed it slightly toward Michael. "I trust this will clear my debt," the Russian stated cautiously. Tony frowned as a nondescript white van crept along the street; this was the second time it had made an appearance and he slid his hand into his jacket, curling his fingers around the butt of his Sig.

"That depends," Rivkin replied to the Russian, "on the usefulness of this information." He flashed a cold smile at the man and started to reach for briefcase.

"Down!" Tony shouted the moment he saw the side door of the van slide open, revealing a pair of armed figures. He dove away from the table instantly, yanking his pistol free of the holster as the gunmen opened up with submachine guns. Bullets rained into the open air café, causing instant pandemonium as the civilians panicked, screamed and scrambled for cover. The shooters were indiscriminate in their aim and, by the time Tony had freed his Sig, at least four people were down and the air was filled with scarlet rain. From where he crouched, DiNozzo took aim and fired once.

The round struck the driver of the van in the temple, killing him instantly and sending a spray of crimson onto the main windshield. As his body twitched, the corpse's foot fell hard onto the accelerator and the van lurched forward, throwing the two rear gunmen off balance. One of them fell out of the truck as the other threw out a hand to catch the vehicle's door and steady himself. Tony shifted aim instantly and squeezed the trigger rapidly. All three rounds slammed home into the man's chest – center mass, just like DiNozzo had been taught – and he fell back, his SMG tumbling out of his hands. Without thinking, Tony shifted fire, orienting on the second shooter now scrambling to his feet and spraying wildly with the OTs-02 in his right hand. Another pair of shrieking civilians toppled before DiNozzo could squeeze the trigger twice in rapid succession. The shooter fell.

And it was then that Tony realized Michael hadn't fired a single shot.

Rivkin was laid out, blood leaking from a stomach wound as a round had somehow penetrated or missed the vest he was wearing. Their contact was dead – the opening salvo had caught the man in the back of the head and showered the Mossad officer with blood and brain matter. Biting back a curse, Tony darted to Michael's side and fumbled for a pulse. It was still there, but DiNozzo's stomach dropped the moment he realized there were three holes in Rivkin's vest.

The bastards had been using armor-piercing rounds.

"Wake your ass up, you lazy bastard," Tony urged as gave Michael another quick once-over, seeking additional injuries that might be life-threatening. He had no idea how bad the stomach wounds were but didn't think they had the time for him to check. Already, he could hear the distant wail of police sirens and, if Drantyev's organization was as well connected as they suspected, reinforcements would be arriving either before or _with _the local LEOs. Rivkin murmured something in Hebrew – it sounded suspiciously like 'Dana,' though Tony wasn't sure if he'd heard the man right – before opening his eyes.

"How bad?" he asked with a grimace.

"Three rounds in the stomach," Tony replied. He grabbed the briefcase and quickly stuffed it into the empty backpack that Michael had concealed underneath their table. The moans of the wounded and hysterical screams of the shocked survivors surrounded him, but DiNozzo ignored them as he pushed the bag into Rivkin's hands. "This is gonna hurt," he warned as he draped one of Michael's arms over his shoulder.

"It will," Rivkin agreed. Somehow, he managed to keep from screaming or passing out as Tony straightened, pulling the Mossad officer to his feet as he did so. The few civilians who noticed them gave them a wide berth, though whether it was the fact that DiNozzo still held his Sig in his right hand or the dark expressions on their faces Tony did not know. Wrapping his left arm around Michael's waist, he half-carried, half-dragged the Israeli man toward the nearby alleyway and the car they had parked there.

He'd barely reached the vehicle when a shout and another hail of bullets caused him to react.

Letting go of Michael, Tony wheeled around instinctively to discover the second shooter was pursuing him. The man staggered as he fumbled for a replacement magazine, likely from shock since he _had _taken several rounds himself, but DiNozzo didn't give him time to recover as he fired twice, this time aiming high. One of his rounds clipped the man's neck, sending a spray of arterial blood flying, while the other one slammed into the shooter's sternum. The vest he was wearing stopped the second round, but the kinetic impact caused him to stumble backward. He abandoned attempts to shoot Tony as desperately tried to stop the flow of blood from his ruined neck.

A heartbeat later, the man collapsed to his knees, swaying as shock and blood loss set in, but DiNozzo ignored him and turned back to where Michael was leaning heavily against the car, panting with exertion and barely conscious. Rivkin's eyes flashed open when Tony touched his arm and DiNozzo winced at the agony he could see on the man's face. The sharp smell of gasoline caused Tony to freeze in place and glance down where he saw a growing puddle coming from underneath their car.

"You have _got_ to be kidding me," he growled as crouched and ducked his head underneath the bumper. A steady stream of gas was draining from the tank and Tony could see the two bullet holes responsible. For a heartbeat, he stared at the leaks with surprised eyes, but another groan from Michael caused him to snap back to reality.

"Not taking this one," he said as he draped Michael's arm over his shoulder once more, "but at least it didn't explode like in the movies." He flashed a grin. "Must be that explosive metal we use for cars in the States."

"Leave me," Rivkin hissed as Tony forced them down the alley. "Just go."

"Shut the hell up, Mike," DiNozzo retorted. He glanced behind them, but didn't relax when he saw no pursuers. "Just focus on not dying, okay?"

A growing crowd of pedestrians were huddled around the mouth of the alleyway as he dragged Michael clear of it, and they backed away from the two men almost in unison at the sight of his pistol and the blood on Rivkin's shirt. Tony ignored them as he continued into the street, his eyes locked on the first approaching car he saw. He lifted the Sig up, pointing it at the driver – a young girl, barely in her twenties – and she reacted without hesitation, slamming on the brakes. The SUV screeched to a halt and DiNozzo pushed Michael toward the back door on the driver's side.

"Open it!" Tony ordered. She obeyed quickly, babbling incoherently in Russian that DiNozzo couldn't quite follow. He shoved Rivkin into the backseat and climbed in after the man. "Drive!" he shouted. To his relief, the girl obeyed that order too, but he could see she was a hairsbreadth away from complete panic. "Do you speak English?" he demanded.

_"Da!" _came her instant response, followed by a quick shake of her head. "I mean yes!" she corrected with a heavy accent.

"Do you have a cell phone?" Tony asked, half turning to see if they were being followed. The pedestrians were pointing in their direction, but there were no police cars or other signs of hostile pursuit.

_"Da!" _the girl replied. She passed back a large phone, her hands trembling, and Tony took it. He flipped it open, noting her name – Nastya – was prominently displayed on the small viewscreen. At his side, Michael had passed out and DiNozzo knew they were running out of time.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said as he punched in a local number. It began ringing immediately. "You're going to be okay." He let it ring three times before hanging up and redialing.

"Please let me go," the girl whimpered. Her eyes were huge in the rearview mirror and DiNozzo felt his stomach twist at what he was having to do to survive. This was something the bad guys did, dammit, and he was supposed to be a white hat. He hung up after four rings and then redialed once more.

"I need you to continue driving," he said. The number rang twice and he hung up again. "You're going to be okay," he repeated. Mere seconds later, the phone began vibrating and playing a ridiculous-sounding techno song.

"Code in," a mechanical-sounding voice ordered once he answered.

"Archangel," Tony replied. "This line is not secure. I'm coming in hot with a civilian and my partner. Code blue."

"Code blue acknowledged," the voice said before the line disconnected. The phone buzzed again, this time indicating an incoming text message. Tony pushed it into the girl's line of sight.

"I need you to take me and my friend here," he said. "Can you do that?"

"Please do not hurt me," she whimpered.

"Just take us here, Nastya," Tony said, "and we'll get out of your life." If possible, her eyes got even bigger.

"How do you know my name?" she asked, his face turning white. Tony flashed her a smile he hoped was reassuring.

"It's on your phone," he said. "My name is Tony and my friend really needs help." She blinked and her eyes darted in the mirror.

"I can take you there," Nastya admitted. Her eyes darted and DiNozzo could tell she was looking at Michael. He could almost see the wheels turning in her head.

"No," Tony said in response to her unspoken question, "we're not terrorists." He lowered his gun and checked Rivkin's pulse. It was weak and thready. For a heartbeat, he considered stripping the bulletproof vest from Michael, but decided against it; he only had rudimentary first aid skills and might only make it worse. "But the men who shot my friend are," Tony added when he caught the disbelieving look in the girl's eyes. He locked eyes with her in the mirror. "I'm not going to hurt you, Nastya," he said carefully, "so just drive us to that address and everything will be fine."

"And you will not hurt me?" she asked. Her breathing seemed to have calmed down somewhat, but Tony could see her white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel hadn't abated. He gave her another smile.

"I promise," Tony said.


	31. Things Fall Apart, 31: Ziva

**A/N:** This chapter takes place mostly concurrently with the previous one and the next couple of chapters. It also takes place a little before 4x14 "Blowback."

* * *

**Ziva**

The smoke in the bar was causing her eyes to burn.

A false smile on her face, Ziva David drained the last of her beer and desperately fought the urge to punch her drinking partner in the face. A native of Jerez de la Frontera, the local municipality a mere thirty kilometers from Rota, Manuel Castillo was Special Agent Paula Cassidy's on-again, off-again lover and the missing link to the puzzle Ziva was attempting to piece together. A paramedic, he was a heavy smoker who was spending money faster than he was earning it, but a full week of investigation had yielded no explanation for the cash flow. Just entering his thirties, he was attractive and had learned to harness his natural charisma like a weapon. He enjoyed life to the fullest and made no attempt to hide the fact that he was bedding as many women as he could.

He was also under constant surveillance by a three-man team.

None of them matched the list of known covert operatives that Mossad had compiled over the years, but they were distinctively skilled and dangerous nonetheless, with sharp eyes and sharper reflexes. From the moment she had entered the bar, Ziva had felt their eyes on her and had instantly recognized professionals. It had taken every bit of her acting skills to keep from tipping her hand too soon or revealing her own talents, though she could feel time running out. With Isaac still incarcerated by the Americans and Moshe laid up with the broken leg, only … Ari was available as back-up, but she had sent him a text message, warning him off. Although he was the most skilled of the three, he was still too green to successfully avoid the notice of Castillo's minders.

Which meant she was entirely on her own.

It took nearly an hour for her to get close enough to her target to attract his notice, and doing so required her to play up her role as scatterbrained party girl. Castillo was an excellent kisser, though his mouth tasted like an ash tray and Ziva could not help but to feel mildly disgusted at what she found herself having to do. She blamed it on Tony and her time in America and too many romantic movies where true love conquered all; a few years ago, she would not have hesitated to seduce this man, sleep with him, and accomplish her task before moving on without a second thought. Today, however, her very skin crawled at the notion of sex with someone she did not have feelings for. Her father would have called her weak. Gibbs would have called her principled. She did not want to think about what Tony would have called her.

_"I have a room not far from this place," _Castillo said in Spanish with a leer as he finished the last of his beer. He stubbed out his cigarette as he spoke and Ziva forced an interested look on her face.

_"How far?" _she asked with a seductive smile. She glanced at her watch. _"I only have a few hours until I must get to work."_

_"That's plenty of time," _Castillo replied. He threw down a wad of bills on the table and rose, pulling her to her feet as he did. To her surprise, he shot a quick, terrified in the direction of one of his handlers, and Ziva pretended not to notice. She was supposed to be mostly drunk, after all, and just another mindless dumbo – was that the right word? Stupid English – out for a night of fun. Castillo's reaction was curious and made her question whether he was actually a mercenary or something else entirely. Use of an easily controlled intermediary was a good play, one she had used in the past herself.

She made it a point to stumble several times on the short walk to Castillo's apartment, laughing too loud and too long than would be otherwise normal. At the doorway leading to his home, they kissed passionately – the taste of cigarettes bothered her more than she expected it too – and Castillo fumbled with the lock before finally getting the door open. Ziva followed him, closing the door behind her and locked eyes with her target. The lust was swimming in his eyes despite his intoxication and, based on their week-long surveillance of him, she suspected he might actually be as good in bed as he claimed. It had been a long time since she had _really _enjoyed sex – since before Tony left, actually – and, for a moment, she was truly tempted.

But the moment passed.

It was over before he knew what was happening. Backing away slightly from him, she forced Castillo to overextend himself as he tried to unhook her bra and Ziva grabbed his hand in a thumb tap pressure point. He barely had time to gasp in shock and pained surprise before she bounced his head off the nearest hard surface which happened to be the kitchen counter. Castillo crumpled with barely a sound, thoroughly unconscious, and Ziva quickly pulled several zip ties from her tiny purse. Securing his hands together behind his back with the makeshift handcuffs, she glanced around for something that could be used to muffle his cries if necessary. A filthy dish towel caught her eye and she stuffed it in his mouth and extracted a small roll of duct tape from her bag. Within seconds, she was done.

_"Oh, s__í!"_ she exclaimed loudly, suddenly reminded of a movie starring Meg Ryan she had watched with Tony. He had claimed to not like it – it was a "chick flick," according to him, and he did not like those kinds of movies – but Ziva had noticed he had more than a passing familiarity with the plot. _"S__í!" _she said again as she pulled on a paper of rubber gloves. _"S__í!"_ Casually, she locked the front door and began surveying the room.

Castillo was something of a slob, with dirty clothes tossed atop the couch without any real regard as to where they landed. Plates with food still stuck to them were scattered all throughout the living room and the kitchen, forcing Ziva to assume that the man was like Tony and allergic to actually washing dishes. She spent several minutes picking through the mess, loudly feigning sex and kicking the walls every few seconds for added effect.

In the bedroom, she found what she was looking for. A laptop, powered up but in standby mode, was resting on a surprisingly neat coffee table next to the bed. Ziva tapped the touchpad and the screen lit up. She opened the email browser and glanced through several of the messages. Her stomach sank at the implication of what she read.

Manuel Castillo was being blackmailed.

Photos of a young, pretty woman and a newborn infant were attached to several emails, none of which had even a subject line and every one of them came from a different (and likely anonymous) email account. Ziva snapped the laptop closed and slid it into the nearby carrying case. Even if he was mostly useless when it came to field work at the moment, Moshe was an excellent hacker, almost as good as McGee, so he could use this computer to backtrace the source of the threats.

She spent another few minutes searching through Castillo's dresser and closet for additional clues before moving into the bathroom where she found a snub-nosed .38 revolver hidden inside what looked like a first responder's trauma bag. It went into her purse – one never had enough weapons, in her opinion, and it looked to be in working order. From there, she headed for the kitchen, noting that Castillo was beginning to rouse. Ziva paused long enough to give him a sharp kick to the jaw that knocked him back out.

In the refrigerator, she found two flash drives hidden in a package of smelly cheese. Both went into her bag and she shook her head in mild disgust at the sheer predictability of amateurs like Castillo. Everyone always seemed to assume that they were the first to think of hiding sensitive material in a refrigerator. She checked the oven and the tiny pantry for anything that might be concealed, and found another revolver, this one so old it looked to have been used prior to the creation of Israel. Tossing it back into the cubby hole where she had found it, Ziva turned away just as Castillo's cell began chirping. Quickly, she retraced her steps to his side and crouched, grapping the phone and flipping it open. The caller ID flashed: Paula Cassidy.

_"Aló," _Ziva answered it, affecting as strong a Spanish accent as she could manage. The silence that came in response almost caused her to smile. This was the best way to get the NCIS agent away from Castillo, especially with the inevitable blowback that was sure to follow. _"Aló?" _she repeated, before giggling and moaning. _"Stop it, Manny," _she said, laughing as she spoke.

A mere second later, she could hear a dial tone.

_You will thank me later,_ Ziva directed toward Cassidy as she cycled through the list of calls made and received by the phone, memorizing the numbers and comparing them with the mental rolodex in her head. Snapping the cell closed, she dropped it into the laptop carrying case.

A change in the ambient light coming through the crack at the bottom of the door was her only warning, but it was enough. Darting to the kitchen, Ziva reached into the small purse and pulled out the revolver, cocking the hammer back and crouching to hide from view. She kicked off the uncomfortable high heels she had been wearing with the short dress. Bare seconds later, the door exploded inward as a heavyset figure smashed into it. Two more men followed, guns drawn, and Ziva recognized them as Castillo's handlers at once. She rose quickly, the revolver at the ready, and fired twice. The first round caught the nearest of the men in the neck, showering his two allies with a geyser of blood. He did not even have time to react before the second round smashed into his temple, killing him instantly. The two remaining men turned in surprise, both recoiling at the spray of crimson that momentarily blinded them. And, by the time they blinked the blood away, Ziva was on them.

She sprang forward, slamming her knee into the crotch of the nearest living target with every gram of her strength and dropping him before he even saw her coming. The other man fired twice at her with a big, bulky semiautomatic pistol – an IMI Desert Eagle .44 by appearances, and the Israeli in her saluted his choice of weapons – but Ziva was already inside the arc of his arm so the rounds smashed harmlessly into the wall with an explosion of plaster. She lashed out with her forearm, knocking the big pistol away, and thrust her revolver forward, burying it in his stomach. His eyes widened in fear.

But she squeezed the trigger anyway.

Shrieking as the bullet tore through his intestines, the man tried to backpedal, but Ziva offered him no pity. This man had tried to kill Tony and Michael. He was a criminal and an enemy of Israel. She raised the .38 to his face and fired once.

"Good pistol," she murmured as she turned to face the second man. He was still face down, vomiting from the violence she had done to his testicles. Shaking her head, Ziva stepped closer to him and smashed the butt of the .38 against the back of his head. He collapsed without a sound. The pounding of approaching feet caused her to spin in place, bringing the pistol around to cover the door as she crouched and reached for one of the dropped Desert Eagles. A moment later, she nearly shot … Ari as he appeared. His eyes widened at the four unmoving bodies arrayed around her and quickly lowered his pistol.

_"Is the van downstairs?" _she demanded in Spanish just in case there were some listening devices concealed somewhere in the room. It would not do to reveal that they were Mossad.

_"It is," _he replied. Ziva nodded and pointed to the man she had just rendered unconscious.

_"Take him and secure him," _she ordered. _"We have questions that need answers."_

As … Ari obeyed, Ziva quickly searched the two corpses, grabbing their cell phones and wallets – and their weapons; three Desert Eagles were always useful – for later examination. She placed her haul in the large outer pocket of the laptop carrying case and gave the room another quick look. Opening Castillo's phone, she dialed a number.

"Hello?" a familiar voice answered.

"I have your man, Agent Baldwin," Ziva said. "You should hurry to claim him before the authorities arrive." She knelt, leaving the phone open as she placed it alongside the now drooling Castillo. If the CIA was not totally incompetent, they should be able to trace the line and arrive well before the local police. After retrieving her shoes, she left the apartment without giving it a second glance and followed … Ari to the nondescript beige van they had acquired when they left Rota a week ago. Moshe was in the back, securing their prisoner with actual handcuffs, and … Ari slid into the passenger seat without argument. He gave Ziva a few hesitant glances tinged with fear as she shifted the van in gear. She sighed, knowing what was to come for the poor unfortunate bastard now cuffed and blinded in the back. It was fortunate that their safehouse was far from prying eyes, and was both soundproofed and so far away from civilization that no one would be able to hear the screams. She was not looking forward to this, not in the slightest.

Two hours later, he broke.


	32. Things Fall Apart, 32: Tony

**A/N:** This chapter takes place mostly concurrently with the previous two and the next chapter as well. It also takes place a little before 4x14 "Blowback."

* * *

**Tony**

Michael was bleeding out.

Only two of the bullets had penetrated his stomach – the third was lodged in Rivkin's bulletproof vest and tumbled to the floorboard when Tony finally pulled the protective gear off his partner, unable to delay any longer. At a glance, DiNozzo could tell that Michael was in worse shape than he feared. Dark red blood was gushing out of the two entry wounds with alarming speed, and Tony hissed a curse.

"Pressure!" the girl exclaimed from where she sat behind the steering wheel. She was glancing back at Michael's unmoving form and, as it turned out, was nearly as bad a driver as Ziva. At least they were getting there fast. "You must apply pressure!"

"I am!" Tony snapped. He couldn't help but to wonder at what sort of karma gods he'd pissed off that made him deserve this. His first hostage, and she turned around and started telling him what to do. Wasn't it supposed to be the other way around? "Come on, Mike," DiNozzo muttered as he glanced around for something that might work as a bandage. "Hold on."

Growling something in Russian that sounded very much like a curse, the girl – Nastya – slammed on the brakes of the SUV and they came to an abrupt, screeching halt. She was out of the driver's seat before Tony entirely registered that she was moving but, to his complete shock, she wasn't running. Instead, she yanked open the back door and started bellowing at him so rapidly that her English and Russian ran together in a jumbled mess that made no sense whatsoever. For the first time, he really took note of her and realized something unexpected: she was wearing medical scrubs.

Maybe God wasn't out to get him after all.

"Out!" she exclaimed, half-climbing over him as she took over Michael's care. Tony blinked in mild surprise – he vaguely realized that shock was setting in as the adrenaline rush wore off – but obeyed. "You drive!" Nastya ordered before muttering something softly in Russian that he couldn't begin to comprehend. "He needs hospital," she said as Tony slammed the door shut and climbed into the driver's seat. There was an antiquated GPS system on the dashboard of the truck and DiNozzo quickly input the address of the Mossad safehouse.

"Ten minutes to where we're going," Tony said as he gunned the engine and pulled back into traffic.

"Your friend may not have ten minutes," the girl replied.

"Then we'll get there in five," DiNozzo said, mashing the accelerator to the floor and focusing on the directions appearing on the tiny GPS screen. Anything that kept his mind off the fact that a man he'd started to call friend could be dead at any moment now, that they were only in Moscow because Tony had insisted this was the only way, that who knew how many civilians had been killed in the crossfire.

Gibbs and Ziva would have been proud of his driving; it only took him four and a half minutes to reach the safehouse, even though it felt like an eternity as Tony weaved crazily through the relatively light traffic. The nondescript building was on the very edge of the city and was so unremarkable in appearance that DiNozzo probably wouldn't have noticed it if he had not seen the discreet signs Michael had taught him to watch for. An opened garage door beckoned, and Tony entered without a second thought; the door began closing almost the moment that he entered and, seconds later, a trio of armed figures seemed to appear out of nowhere, surrounding the car and leveling AK-47s at him.

"Archangel!" Tony snapped as he raised his arms and showed them his hands. "I've got a badly wounded man in here!" The passenger side back door opened and one of the men gave Michael and Nastya a careful look. He began rattling off questions in rapidfire Russian that was too fast for Tony to recognize more than one word in six, but the girl replied just as quickly and efficiently. They were speaking medical jargon, DiNozzo guessed, but he had no opportunity to find out as another of the men opened the driver's door and hauled him out.

"You are armed?" the man asked and Tony gave him a scornful look in response. He looked young, probably around the same age as the girl, and was obviously trying to hide his fear behind bluster.

"Of course I am," DiNozzo answered. "What kind of stupid question is that anyway? Do you get a lot of unarmed people with bloody clothes show up here?" He craned his head back to see what was happening with Michael. Another pair of men had materialized out of nowhere while he was dealing with the rookie in front of him, bringing with them one of those wheeled gurneys that paramedics used. Rivkin was already atop it as the doctor – or at least that what Tony hoped the guy was – began cutting away Michael's shirt. Nastya was at his side, assisting without comment.

"Agent … DiNozzo?" a sixth man asked as he stepped into the light. Tony frowned.

"First," he said, "you screwed up. If I wasn't DiNozzo, you just gave me the name of a person of interest." The man grimaced and glanced away, a sheepish expression appearing on his face. "Second, you need to call your boy off before I have to get all Jason Bourne on his ass and I'd hate to embarrass him on his first day at the office." The boy in question glowered, but stepped back at a sharp command from who Tony assumed was his boss.

"Apologies, Agent DiNozzo," the sixth man said. His English was impeccable, though clearly tinged with a Slavic accent. According to what Michael had told him, these men were all natural born Russian Jews who had been recruited into Mossad mostly for surveillance purposes; ironically, the collapse of the Soviet Union had resulted in even greater numbers of similar Russians to accept covert employment with Israel's intelligence organization as a rising tide of anti-Semitism (previously held in check by the now defunct communist government) made life difficult for them. Employing local assets with a religious tie to Israel was evidently cheaper than training an operative to become an expert in Russian history. "We do not often deal with others."

"I'd never have guessed," Tony replied wryly. He watched as they wheeled Michael away. One of the guards grabbed Nastya's arm, but the doctor – _was _he a doctor? – snapped something hard and the man released her. She followed the gurney, still chattering on in Russian. For someone who had been so visibly terrified earlier, she'd calmed down nicely; it was something Tony had seen before – provide a scared victim with something to concentrate on other than what had just happened and they'd be okay for a little while.

"The director wishes to speak with you," the Boss said. Tony grunted and ignored the man as he opened the back door and pulled out the bloody backpack. The briefcase was still intact and DiNozzo glared at it as if it was responsible for the nightmare that had just happened. _You better be worth this,_ he thought.

"Lead on, MacDuff," he told the sixth man.

They entered a small office room and Eli David's face dominated a flatscreen television monitor that instantly reminded Tony of the one in MTAC, though this version was obviously much smaller. The Mossad director's expression darkened as DiNozzo stepped into the camera's line of sight.

"How is Michael?" the older man asked without preamble.

"In surgery, Director," the Sixth Man said. "Ivan is good. If anyone can save him, it is my brother."

"Good," David remarked. "I hope this operation of yours was worth this price, Anthony," he said coolly.

"So do I," Tony replied. He pulled the briefcase out of the backpack. "Our covers were intact, sir," he said. "The bad guys followed the GRU guy, Vasily, to the drop site."

"I have two men sterilizing Agent DiNozzo and Officer Rivkin's hotel rooms nonetheless," Sixth Man interjected. Tony shot him a look, inexplicably reminded of the annoying Agent Slacks. They looked nothing alike – hell, they weren't even the same ethnicity – but the same vibe rolled off this guy that Tony got from the FBI agent.

"I'm sorry," he said. "We haven't been introduced. I'm DiNozzo. Who the hell are you?"

"Piotr is one of my people, Anthony," Eli announced. "I am concerned with your breach of protocol. You brought a _civilian _into this?"

"I didn't exactly have a lot of choices, sir. Michael was barely conscious, our rental wasn't mobile and we needed a fast getaway." Tony shrugged. "I could have left Mike there to die in the street," he said flatly, "but I was taught to never leave a man behind. Plus, I figured it might be hard to explain what a Mossad officer was doing in Moscow with a couple of bullets in his stomach just a few steps away from where a café was shot up."

"She will need to be dealt with," Piotr said and, to Tony's horrified disgust, Director David nodded.

"Hold on," DiNozzo said. "You are _not _killing this girl."

"She is a security risk," Piotr declared, as if that was the end of it.

"She's a _civilian_," Tony argued. "She's just a scared girl, an innocent-"

"There are no innocents in this world," Eli said with a heavy sigh. "I do not like it anymore than you do, Anthony, but she knows about this safehouse and-"

"No!" Tony growled. In one clean motion, he drew his Sig and leveled at the face of a surprised Piotr, earning a startled gasp from both the Russian man and the director of Mossad. "If you kill her," DiNozzo hissed darkly, "you damned well better be prepared to kill me too."

"Anthony," Eli began, but Tony ignored him.

"That girl may very well have saved Officer Rivkin's life," DiNozzo said, "and you want to reward her by putting a bullet in her brain?" He nearly spat. "Jesus!" he exclaimed. "No wonder everyone in the Middle East wants to wipe you out if this is how you do business!" David's eyes narrowed but Tony barely noticed. "When Ziva said you were a cold-hearted bastard," he said, "I thought she was exaggerating, but … God! How does killing this girl help us?" Piotr shifted as if he was trying to discreetly reach for a weapon and Tony glowered. "At this range," he said softly without turning his eyes away from the video screen, "a bullet from my pistol will turn your head into a canoe, Pete, so I'd recommend not making any sudden moves that might cause me to get nervous."

"Put down your weapon, Agent DiNozzo!" Director David ordered sharply.

"Not until you promise me this girl won't get hurt," Tony replied. "We're supposed to be the good guys, dammit!"

"This is intelligence work, Anthony," Eli said. "Most of the time, you cannot tell the difference." Tony shook his head in disgust.

"Then I pity you, sir," he said, "but I will _not _let you kill this girl."

A long silence answered him, but finally David nodded.

"So be it," he declared. "We will defer to your … judgment, Anthony," Eli said, "but I will hold you personally responsible for any complications." He glanced at Piotr. "Clear the room, please," he said. "I wish to have a word with Agent DiNozzo in private."

"Touch that girl," Tony said softly as he lowered his gun, "and I'll shoot you."

"So noted," Piotr said. He almost smirked, but DiNozzo could see the sweat on his brow.

"You will never question my orders again, Anthony," Director David said the moment the door was closed. Tony snorted.

"Clearly you haven't read my file," he replied. "I don't follow directions very well. It drove Gibbs nuts. But it _got the job done._" For a heartbeat, he allowed himself to enjoy the startled expression that flitted across Eli's face. Idly, he wondered when the last time someone had stood up to the man and told him 'no.' From David's reaction, it had been a _very_ long time. "Check the psych profile if you want," Tony continued. "It should all be there. Something about a deep-rooted hero complex and a drive for justice to be handed out to the bad guys." He holstered his Sig. "You'll note the important words there, right? _Bad guys._ As in the kinds of sick scum who murder innocent girls because they happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time." Tony flashed his brightest smile. "You want me to help," he said, "it comes with the whole package, baggage and all. If you can't deal with that, then you need to send me home. Otherwise, we're wasting time with this stupid pissing contest. Sir." The director was silent for a long moment.

"I see why Ziva likes you," he finally said. The screen blanked out as Eli ended the transmission, but Tony caught the hint of a smile on the man's face in the second before the monitor went dark. DiNozzo exhaled softly in relief.

"You are absolutely insane," Piotr announced as he re-entered the small office. His eyes were wide. "No one talks to the director of Mossad like that."

"I did," Tony replied with a shrug. "He's not that scary, once you get past the whole terrifying spymaster with a ninja assassin daughter and hordes of Israeli double-oh-sevens at his fingertips thing." DiNozzo blinked. "You know," he remarked, "when I put it like that, it _does _make him sound a _little _scary." Piotr shook his head. "Hey, you got an X-Ray machine in this place?" Tony asked as he examined the briefcase. "I may have been hanging around spies too long, but I'd like to make sure this isn't a bomb or anything."

"A sensible precaution," Piotr agreed. He gestured in the direction they needed to go and Tony followed him. "Tell me," the Russian man said, "have you read _Deep Six_? Because you remind me of Agent DiNardo in it."

Tony sighed.


	33. Things Fall Apart, 33: Ziva

**A/N:** This chapter takes place mostly concurrently with the previous three chapters as well. It also takes place a little before 4x14 "Blowback."

And to all of those wondering about the inevitable Tony/Ziva reunion, it _is _coming. Patience is a virtue...

* * *

**Ziva**

Her prisoner snapped awake with a gasp.

The man – Moshe had already identified him as Juan Reyes, a native of Jerez with a criminal record for petty crimes – did not try to hide the fear that flashed across his face as he took in situation. Stripped naked, he was shackled to an uncomfortable metal chair that was in a cold room with only a single overhead light bulb to provide illumination. They had intentionally used only a forty watt bulb, knowing it would keep most of the room draped in shadows. Cables were attached to the chair and ran straight to a jury-rigged device consisting of a car battery, exposed wires and what had once been a sound mixing console. A small table was directly in front of Reyes and upon it was a wide variety of knives and surgical tools, most of which came from a dentist's office. Ziva herself was seated on the opposite side of the table and was wearing an old butcher's apron that already had prominent discolorations visible to the naked eye. Dressed similarly, Officer Ariel Livni lounged near the door, an eager look on his face that was only partially faked.

_"Who are you?" _Reyes demanded in Spanish, trying to sound confident though his voice cracked as he spoke. Ziva glanced up from the game she was playing on her cellphone – damn that DiNozzo for addicting her to Tetris – and smiled.

"Mossad,"she replied coolly as she flipped the phone closed. Reyes blanched and his eyes widened in horror. His gaze darted to the various implements around him and Ziva smiled inwardly at the effectiveness of their preparations. Most of them were simply for show – the battery was so old it could not have started a lawnmower, and the leads connecting it to the chair were little more than empty plastic tubing. The soundboard would not work even if they plugged it in, but was certainly impressive looking. It was a well known fact among the best interrogators: the _threat _of torture was usually more effective than the actual application of coercive techniques, especially on thugs like this man.

And Ziva excelled at making threats.

_"I want to thank you, Mister Reyes," _she continued calmly, noting the sharp intake of breath at her use of the prisoner's name, _"for this excellent training opportunity." _She gestured in the direction of Officer Livni – it was easier, she realized, to think of him that way rather than by his first name. _"You see, my associate has not had the chance to conduct an … interrogation before now and I have decided to allow him to acquire the information we require."_

_"She was not specific as to _how," Livni stated with a malicious smile that caused Reyes to shudder.

_"Well played," _Ziva remarked in Hebrew. Officer Livni gave her a nod.

_"I saw it on a television show once," _he replied. Ziva snorted at the wide-eyed look of oblivious horror on Reyes' face. There was no hint of comprehension in his eyes as to what they were saying. She stood.

_"He is all yours, Officer Livni,"_ she said, once more slipping into Spanish so Reyes could understand. She and Livni switched places, with Ziva reclining against the wall while the younger man took the seat across from their prisoner, placing a thick manila folder on the table as he sat. He smiled at Reyes.

_"Good evening," _Livni began conversationally, as if they were old friends. _"We have some questions that we would like answered. Failure to comply will lead to … well, let us just say it will not be comfortable."_ Reyes swallowed and wet his lips, glancing once in Ziva's direction and then down to his groin as if to assure himself that they had not already removed anything he might consider important. In her experience, men always did that when they found themselves in this situation and the fact that he was just now doing so was an indication of just how terrified he was. _"You are in a great deal of trouble, Mister Reyes," _Livni continued. He flipped open the folder. _"We already know that you are a low-level enforcer assigned to watch Manuel Castillo, whom your employers used to gain access to sensitive intelligence from the Americans on the base at Rota."_ Reyes' eyes widened fractionally, and Ziva could actually see him trying to come up with an excuse, an explanation that would contest any of the evidence they already had. _"You might be interested to know," _Livni said, _"that Mister Castillo is now in the custody of the American C.I.A., along with the bodies of your two associates."_ As Reyes drew in a sharp breath, Livni pulled several sheets of paper from the folder. _"That _your _body did not turn up will no doubt cause your employers to investigate where they will find this."_ He laid the papers out in front of their prisoner; they were all faked, of course – Photoshop was a wonderful tool – but they certainly looked real. _"Numbered Swiss accounts opened in an alias that can be traced back to you," _Livni said. _"The United States recently deposited two hundred thousand dollars into these accounts over a period of two weeks."_ Ziva hid a smile behind one hand at the horrified expression on Reyes' face. Livni smiled tightly as he placed a plastic bag containing the firearm Ziva had used at Castillo's home. _"Ballistics will match the bullets that killed your partners to this weapon," _the young man said, _"which has your fingerprints all over it. Arrangements have already been made for this pistol to be delivered to the C.I.A. special agent who has Mister Castillo in custody."_ Livni grinned. _"He is a close friend of ours," _he declared and Reyes swallowed. _"So," _Livni said calmly, _"if you do not cooperate, we will not hurt you. We will not threaten you or your family or turn you over to the Americans. We will simply let you go and allow your employers to deal with you."_

Reyes talked.

Names, contact numbers, drop points, anything he could remember that would lead back to his employers spilled out of his mouth so quickly that it was hard to keep up with him. Ziva discreetly let herself out of the small room halfway through his confession and walked through the mostly derelict warehouse to the hastily erected computer station where Moshe Harari was seated. He tensed at her approach but did not look away from the streaming video of Livni's interrogation.

_"I have name recognition software running, Officer David," _he said in Hebrew without having to be prompted. Ziva nodded – he was finally learning. _"If any of his contacts are on our Watch List, the computer will flag them."_

_"Good," _Ziva said. She noticed a dialog box on one of his monitors indicating that he was streaming the recording to another computer. _"You are sending this to Tel Aviv?" _she asked.

_"On Officer Hadar's orders," _Moshe answered hesitantly. He looked like he was bracing himself for a blow, but Ziva merely nodded and turned away.

_"Call Officer Livni out of the cell in an hour," _she ordered. _"We will allow Reyes to sit in the dark until tomorrow, but I want him watched so he does not try to do anything stupid."_

_"Yes, Officer David."_

Ziva strode away, struggling with conflicted emotions. She did not know whether to be complimented or insulted that Amit Hadar was keeping such a close eye on this operation. As her father's right-hand man and general … problem solver, she knew it certainly fell within his bailiwick to keep abreast of this operation, but she hoped it was not out of distrust over her abilities. In her experience, Hadar only monitored situations he expected to have severe blowback that could lead to potential problems for Mossad.

Taking a seat on her cot and tossing the butcher's apron to the floor, Ziva glanced around the warehouse and frowned. A single-floor building, it had originally belonged to a freight shipping company that went bankrupt in the mid nineties. Since then, three different corporations had purchased it, but all of them eventually collapsed as well. According to Moshe's internet search, the warehouse was now considered the kiss of death for any business that dared to purchase it.

With that in mind, the team had turned it into a short term safehouse. The four vehicles they had obtained – two vans, a small car and a motorcycle – were parked within, and Officer Livni had acquired a working generator and miniature refrigerator from somewhere in the city. Bathroom facilities were rudimentary and running water was non-existent, but the warehouse nonetheless allowed them to stay off the grid until their mission was complete. The building was also sufficiently large enough for each of the three to have their own distinct space; Moshe's cot was near the computer station, Livni's was near the generator and the lights so he could read his ridiculous science-fiction books without bothering everyone else, and Ziva's was as far away from both of them as possible.

As she stretched out on her cot, Ziva's phone began vibrating. She sighed and pulled it out of her pants pocket. Glancing at the caller id, she rolled her eyes and answered.

_"Shalom," _she said into the receiver.

_"Shalom, Officer David,"_ Amit Hadar said. _"Is there a reason why _you _are not conducting the interrogation?"_

_"Livni needs the practice," _Ziva replied. She lowered her voice and glanced in Moshe's direction to make sure he was too far away to overhear the conversation. _"He is the only one who has a future in field work," _she said. _"Harari has the potential to be a fine support officer …"_

_"And you abandoned Isaac Chayat to the Americans," _Hadar growled, a reproving tone to his voice.

_"He is lucky I did not simply shoot him," _she retorted. _"That boy is a sloppy, reckless fool who thinks he is _James Bond." Instantly, Ziva winced at the movie reference; before Tony, she would never have made such a foolish mistake. To her surprise, Hadar chuckled.

_"His instructors said the same thing though in different words," _he revealed. _"I sent him to you because I was hoping he was not a lost cause."_

_"He is," _Ziva said. _"Cut him loose from Mossad," _she advised, _"or use him as a decoy for _real _intelligence officers, but do not promote him to active field work unless you want to see him get people killed."_

_"I will take that under advisement," _Hadar said. _"The director is concerned that you have involved the Americans with your investigation."_

_"Thanks to Chayat," _Ziva said tersely, _"it was unavoidable."_ She could hear her old mentor grunt in understanding. _"Involving them may work to our advantage, however," _she continued. _"Let them take the credit … and the blame. Israel can remain in the shadows." _A part of her hated the idea that she could be causing future American casualties by allowing the United States to become the focus of any reprisal strikes, but the patriot in her acknowledged that Israel could not absorb the losses that the Americans could. It was, in the end, a numbers game.

_"Officer David!" _Moshe's voice echoed across the warehouse in the same moment that Hadar spoke.

_"Interesting," _he said. Ziva rolled off the cot and fast walked toward the computer station. Over the phone, she could hear Hadar issuing soft instructions to someone else and caught only a single word: Moscow.

_"We have a hit on the name recognition," _Moshe announced. _"Ivan Volkov is a known alias of a man we know as Viggo Drantyev."_

_"I am sending an extraction team to your location, Ziva,"_ Hadar said tersely. _"Do not allow anything to happen to your prisoner. I want him alive for a more thorough interrogation here."_

_"Yes, sir," _Ziva replied. _"With your permission," _she continued, _"I would like to continue the investigation on this end. We know that Reyes' employers were blackmailing Castillo by threatening his sister and his niece. They live in Cordoba…"_

_"As long as you maintain a low profile," _Hadar replied, _"I do not think that there will be any problem with you pursuing that angle. Consider the sanction order on your initial target rescinded."_

_"What about Chayat?"_ she asked, noting instantly how Moshe tensed.

_"I will contact Agent Baldwin of the C.I.A. personally to deal with your young fool. He is no longer a part of your team."_

_"Yes, sir," _Ziva said. The phone line went dead a moment later and she snapped the cell closed. _"Text Officer Livni," _she ordered, _"and tell him to prep Reyes for transport. We are sending him to Tel Aviv."_

_"Poor bastard," _Moshe murmured.

Ziva had to agree.


	34. Things Fall Apart, 34: Tim

**A/N:** This chapter takes place mostly concurrently with the next three chapters as well. It also takes place just after 4x14 "Blowback."

* * *

**Tim**

The drive back from the airport was remarkably tense.

Gibbs was behind the wheel (like usual), and Ducky had claimed the passenger seat once the director disappeared in her personal vehicle, fury stamped upon her face at her pursuit of La Grenouille having been thwarted once again, which left Tim stuck in the back of the Charger with Michelle and Officer Stavi. Since Lee hadn't yet forgiven the still visiting Mossad officer for her one-night stand with Jimmy Palmer, McGee was currently sandwiched between the two women. Under other circumstances, he'd be perfectly happy with the placement: between the lack of space in the back seat and Gibbs' bumper car driving style, it was inevitable that the women would end up all over him (which was always pleasant, even if he was involved with someone.) At the moment, though, Tim was trying to ignore how Dana – Officer Stavi, he corrected himself – was dozing at his side, her head resting on his shoulder and one of her arms entangled with his. He wasn't sure if she was actually asleep or this was some crazy game she was playing to see just how uncomfortable she could make him.

If it was the latter, well, then she was fully succeeding. He felt like he was about to crawl out of his skin.

In the three weeks since she'd arrived, Stavi had been an almost constant presence at NCIS Headquarters. She had assumed Ziva's role on the team at Director Shepard's request and had been at odds with Gibbs from almost day one. If Tim hadn't found himself stuck in the role of mediator between the two, he'd have been amused at how the two fought over _everything_. Dana questioned Gibbs' abilities, Gibbs questioned hers, and they eyed each other like a pair of wolves out to prove which one was the alpha. On no less than three occasions, Tim overhead his boss arguing with Director Shepard and _demanding _that the Mossad officer be sent back to Tel Aviv (or at least the Israeli embassy). So far, though, Dana was still acting as if she were a TAD for Ziva.

And, apart from Tim who rather liked her for reasons he couldn't put into words, pretty much everyone was looking forward to her departure. By the end of the first week, Stavi had maneuvered poor Palmer into bed after she had a close call with an armed suspect. She didn't rub Michelle's nose in it or brag about it, but when Lee found out about Palmer's indiscretion and demanded the truth, Dana confirmed that she had slept with the autopsy gremlin (Tim had _no _desire to learn that Palmer got high marks from the Israeli; there were some things he was just better off not knowing.) In her defense, she hadn't known that Palmer was sort of involved with Michelle at the time and a lot of alcohol _had _been involved with both parties (Lee had just broken up with Jimmy … again and Palmer was drowning his sorrows in cheap beer), but Stavi's apologies fell on deaf ears. Once again, Tim found himself in the frustrating position of mediator and somehow – he couldn't quite say _how _– managed to talk Lee out of making a terminal mistake by pressing the issue. Having seen Ziva take down men twice Michelle's size, he didn't want to imagine what Stavi could do to Lee.

From his observations of the Mossad officer, Tim suspected that sex was her way of coping with the stresses of her job, much like Gibbs' bourbon and boat building or Tony's smart ass façade or even McGee's own writing. Everyone in their line of work did something to forget – alcohol was the usual escape – so Tim found that he couldn't really judge Dana for how she found comfort. If anything, he found it a little sad that a woman as attractive and as interesting as she was had to find refuge in the arms of strangers.

The wheels of the Charger squealed as Gibbs took a sharp corner at fifty miles an hour. Gravity pushed Tim into Michelle – she grunted – and he flashed her an apologetic smile. She rolled her eyes but didn't bother commenting; in the seven and a half months since Gibbs had returned, Lee had learned to cope with their boss' apparent inability to drive safely or slowly.

"It's like a roller coaster," she had once said during drinks before then admitting that she actually preferred riding with Ziva to Gibbs. "At least with her," she revealed, "you know there's an actual reason why she drives like a maniac. Gibbs didn't grow up with IEDs though, so he's just a really bad driver."

Abby had thought the comment was hysterical and called Gibbs 'B.D.' for nearly two weeks, much to the silver-haired agent's visible confusion.

The soft trilling of a cell phone caused Officer Stavi to jerk upright and let go of Tim's arm. He watched silently as she extracted the phone from her jeans pocket and glanced at the small screen, a frown creasing her face.

_"Shalom," _she said into the receiver once she answered it. Her face paled slightly and, though he could not understand the rapid-fire Hebrew conversation, Tim could see that it affected her a lot. She hung up a few moments later and stared out the window, an expression on her face that McGee couldn't possibly decipher. He glanced to the front of the car and caught Gibbs' curious eyes in the rear view mirror. The silver-haired senior agent gave him a slight nod, and Tim sighed softly at the implicit order to meddle. He wondered how often Tony had received a similar instruction.

"Something wrong?" he finally asked. Dana shot him a flat look before returning her attention to the landscape flashing by at an inherently unsafe speed.

"No," she said coldly, her voice tight. She said nothing else for the remainder of the short-lived ride, but Tim could tell that something _was_ wrong simply from the tense posture she assumed or how rigid her muscles were as she clutched the passenger handle just above the door. The moment Gibbs parked the Charger, she was out of the car.

"Please inform Director Shepard I have been recalled," she said over her shoulder before she virtually sprinted toward the personal vehicle the Israeli Embassy had loaned her. With a squeal of the tires, she was gone.

"I do believe that young lady is in a hurry," Ducky pronounced wryly as he leveraged himself out of the Charger. Gibbs gave him a sidelong glance. "Oh, don't give me that look, Jethro," the doctor said. "You know my Hebrew is rusty."

"What did she say, Duck?" Gibbs demanded, gesturing for McGee and Lee to begin unpacking their gear from the car. Tim sighed: once a Probie, always a Probie it seemed.

"Something about Moscow," Doctor Mallard replied. "I believe she was receiving instructions to go there." Gibbs grunted before turning away.

"I'll need you to type a report about this op, Duck," he said calmly. At the doctor's look, he shrugged. "It can wait until tomorrow."

"Good," Ducky said. "I can only imagine what sort of trouble Mother has gotten into tonight without me there to watch."

"What about us, Boss?" Tim asked hopefully, wondering what the chances were of him getting home before three a.m. tonight. It had been a _very _long day, what with their quick flight to Canada and the entire sleight-of-hand operation intended to capture the Frog, René Benoit, and McGee was more than ready to collapse into his bed for a few hours.

"What do you think, McGee?" Gibbs retorted sharply. Tim sighed and exchanged a look with Michelle. It looked like it was going to be another all-nighter, and he was glad that Jeanne had already warned him she was going to be too busy this week with a particularly grueling ER rotation to even _think_ about dating.

Nearly four hours passed before McGee finished up the last of his required paperwork and he leaned back in his seat with a groan. It was almost five in the morning and he was so tired he doubted he would even be able to sleep in the unlikely event he had the opportunity to lay down for a few minutes. Both Gibbs and Michelle were long gone; the former had pounded out his incident report with the ease of long practice and the latter had finished hers nearly two hours ago. Unfortunately, Tim had a growing backlog of reports he had to finish, paperwork that was stacking up because the director kept monopolizing his free time with errands and ancillary missions only vaguely connected to the Benoit operation. Even with his excellent typing speed, McGee was falling behind.

"You're falling behind," Gibbs announced from behind him, the unexpected comment – which seemed to have been pulled directly from Tim's brain, thus adding credence to Abby's theory that the silver-haired senior agent was psychic – causing McGee to jump in his seat. He accidentally knocked over his coffee cup, but it had been empty for almost an hour.

"Boss!" Tim greeted, speaking slightly louder than necessary. "I didn't see you there!"

"I know," Gibbs said as he rounded the small partition and stood in front of McGee's desk. He gave the stack of paperwork a frown before pinning Tim with a steely gaze. "You're falling behind, McGee," he repeated.

"I know," Tim said with a heavy sigh. "There's just so much about the job that I still don't know," he admitted softly, "and I can't seem to catch up."

"It's a tough job," Gibbs stated calmly. His lips twitched, as if he was about to smile. "Gives you new respect for Tony, doesn't it?" McGee nodded.

"He made it look so easy." Tim ran his hands through his hair.

"The special assignment the director has you on isn't helping," Gibbs remarked, shooting a look in the direction of Shepard's office. McGee flinched. More than anything, he wanted to ask his boss for advice, but the director had been adamant: whatever Gibbs knew or suspected, Tim was _not _to talk about the op.

"Boss, I…" he started to say, but Gibbs waved him off.

"Can't talk about it," he finished for Tim. "I know the deal, McGee." Sighing, he gave Tim another long look. "She's not making it easy for me either," he said after a moment. "I need a senior field agent who isn't distracted by extracurricular activities and she's making it impossible for you to do both of these jobs." McGee's tired brain took a few minutes to catch up and his eyes bugged.

"Are you firing me, Boss?" he asked hesitantly. Gibbs shook his head.

"No," he replied. "But I _am_ going to request that Special Agent Yates be assigned to the team," Gibbs continued. "This isn't a demotion, Tim," he said when McGee looked away to hide his conflicted expression. "It takes years to learn all of the tricks of this position and it was dumped on you with very little warning. You've done a fine job so far and part of Yates' duties will be to teach you the ropes so you'll be ready when she gets her own team."

"It _will _be nice to sleep more than four hours a night," McGee said with a forced smile. He hated that a _large _part of him wanted to dance for joy over the fact that someone else would have to deal with this stupid job and the insane amount of paperwork involved. Frankly, it was no wonder that Tony was a little crazy, not if he'd done this for over four years.

"Sleep is overrated," Gibbs remarked. He frowned. "But you look like crap. Go home. I don't want to see you until tomorrow."

"Boss…"

"Go home, Tim." Gibbs smirked. "In fact," he said with an evil glint in his eyes, "grab your gear. I'm driving you home." Tim swallowed.

"That's not necessary, Boss," he quickly said. "I can manage."

"McGee, you're about to pass out now." Gibbs shook his head. "I'd hate for you to wrap that Porsche around a tree." Tim blinked – was his boss saying he actually cared? "It's a damned fine car," Gibbs added a moment later. "Be a shame to mess it up."

McGee sighed. Nope. Still the same Gibbs.


	35. Things Fall Apart, 35: Tony

**A/N:** This chapter takes place mostly concurrently with the previous chapter, as well as the next two. It also takes place just after 4x14 "Blowback."

From this point, the story goes _completely _AU (as if it hadn't already.) There will be no additional references to canon episodes set later in the "timeline" of season 4, although I reserve the right to steal events from those eps as appropriate.

* * *

**Tony**

He could not wait for Michael to wake up.

For the last three days, Tony had watched his heavily medicated Mossad partner mumble and groan the name of a single woman. Each time Nastya, the medical student, touched him, Rivkin called her by that woman's name. Yesterday, Michael had even carried on a very nice, very long conversation with Doctor Ivan – Tony couldn't pronounce the man's last name on a dare; hadn't these people ever heard of _vowels_? – and, under the influence of the drugs, had seemed completely convinced that the good doctor was the woman of his dreams, no matter the man's thick beard and booming baritone.

"Dana?" Michael murmured from the uncomfortable-looking hospital gurney – evidently, they couldn't afford an actual bed – and Tony grinned. This was going to be fun.

"Afraid not, buddy," he said as he loomed over his bed-ridden partner. Rivkin blinked several times before yawning widely. "Are you actually with us this time?" DiNozzo asked.

"Tony?" Rivkin pinched the bridge of his nose before rubbing his eyes. "Where am I?" he asked.

"Still in Moscow," Tony said. He grinned brightly. "You talk in your sleep, Mikey," he remarked. Rivkin frowned.

"I do not," he argued before glancing around the tiny room. "Are we alone?" he asked. "I thought…"

"Dana was here?" Tony finished, his grin getting bigger. "Only in your dreams, Mike." For a long moment, Rivkin stared at him, visibly paling as he obviously realized the source of DiNozzo's good humor and the meaning behind his earlier comments about talking in his sleep.

"Is there any chance," Rivkin wondered after several seconds of silence, "that I can convince you to drop this?"

"Nope," Tony replied with a chuckle. "After all the crap you've given me about Ziva," he said, "I think I'm due a bit of revenge."

Michael sighed.

And then he cursed.

"I have known Dana since I was six," he said suddenly, his eyes swimming out of focus as he glanced away. "She was my first … everything." Tony froze, the humor of the situation rapidly dwindling as he realized the drugs coursing through Rivkin's system were acting like a truth serum. He'd wanted to harass his friend, not listen to the man's life story. "She was my first friend, my first enemy, my first kiss, my first love, my first …" Michael shook his head. "We did everything together," he said.

"Uh, Mike," Tony started to interrupt, but Rivkin continued on, as if he didn't hear him.

"We were in the same unit in the IDF," he said, "and joined Mossad at the same time." Michael smiled. "It was my dream that we would marry after we single-handedly brought peace to Israel," he added. His smile faded. "That dream died," he said, "alongside our first victims." Tony couldn't begin to comprehend the expression that flashed across Rivkin's face. "No one ever warns you about what it is like to do murder in the name of your country," he murmured, "and it was hard to look at myself in the mirror without wanting to throw up." Another sigh escaped his lips. "It was even harder to look at Dana, knowing that she had willingly slept with a traitor simply for information." Michael frowned. "I was such a fool back then," he said. "It never occurred to me that seducing a man you hated was harder to stomach than killing him."

"What happened?" Tony asked after a long moment.

"I said things to Dana that could not be unsaid," Rivkin revealed sadly. "I called her names that no woman should be called and made her hate me." He stared at his hands. "At the moment she needed her _friend _the most," he said, "that _friend_ was calling her a whore. Is it any wonder that she walked away from me?" Self-disgust washed across his face. "For a time, I lost myself in the work." To Tony's surprise, Michael shivered and began wringing his hands, as if they were wet. "The things I have done in the name of Israel … no sane man would want to do what I have done." He frowned. "When Ziva came into my life," he said, "I leaped at the opportunity to prove that I was more than a weapon, more than a killer. I so desperately wanted to love her."

DiNozzo grimaced.

"Did you?" he asked hesitantly, not sure if he really wanted to hear the answer.

"Not in the way she deserved," Michael said. "Not like you do." Tony flinched at the comment, but Rivkin continued to speak, his voice soft. "Ziva and I were together when she first came to America, chasing after Ari," he said and DiNozzo's eyes widened in surprise, "and we initially remained in a long distance relationship when her father assigned her to NCIS. We saw each other only infrequently."

"That explains the friction burns," Tony mumbled to himself. He flushed with embarrassment the moment he realized he had said that aloud, but Michael didn't seem to notice.

"At the same time, I was partnered with Dana on an op in Syria and we quickly fell into our old habits," he said.

"You cheated on Ziva," DiNozzo guessed, wincing as his imagination filled in her reaction. Rivkin nodded.

"She thought I was drunk," he said, "but I was not." He hung his head. "Dana has never needed alcohol to force me into making bad decisions."

"And I thought _I _was screwed up," Tony muttered. He felt Michael's eyes on him and grimaced. "She was with someone else before me," he admitted, "and then went back to him the moment he returned." Rivkin frowned so Tony explained the situation carefully, taking special effort to avoid using names or identities in the hopes that the drugs fogging Michael's brain would prevent him from putting it together.

"Gibbs?" Rivkin guessed, dashing Tony's hope that the Mossad officer was still too high to figure it out. "You think she is sleeping with Gibbs?" He gave it a moment of thought before shaking his head. "That does not sound like Ziva," he remarked.

"But the pieces fit," Tony groused. "She wasn't interested in starting anything until he left and then dropped me like a hot potato when he came back."

"Have you asked her about this?" Michael queried. His eyes were drooping heavily and his words were beginning to slur together as the drugs and the recent surgery conspired to pull him toward unconsciousness once more. "Of course not," Rivkin supplied his own answer. "You are too frightened of the answer."

"I am not!" Tony retorted hotly, even if part of him agreed with Michael's assessment.

"Then call her," Rivkin said. "She is in Europe," he added.

"She is?" DiNozzo frowned; why the hell wasn't she in D.C.?

"Yes," Michael murmured. His eyes closed completely. "I have her direct number on my cell…"

A moment later, he was unconscious.

Unable to stop himself, Tony turned toward the pile of clothes and gear that belonged to Rivkin. His eyes zeroed in on the cell phone instantly and he found himself drawn toward it, as if the damned thing was a giant magnet and he was wearing a metal suit. Locating Ziva's number wasn't difficult – it was dead last on the Contacts list – and Tony stared at the digital numbers long enough for the power-saver mode to kick on.

Behind him, he heard the creak of the door open and half-turned to face whoever had entered the tiny, makeshift infirmary. An armed man stood there and Tony recognized him at once. He was the second person DiNozzo had shot at the café days earlier, the one who had collapsed inside the van after taking three shots to the chest.

Clearly, the man had been wearing body armor.

_"Do not move," _the man hissed in Russian as he aimed a silenced pistol directly at Tony. DiNozzo gave him the most terrified expression he could muster as he raised his hands.

_"Do not kill me!" _he said in Spanish, noting instantly the lack of comprehension crossing the man's face. _"I am the doctor!" _Tony continued, heaving a soft sigh of relief when the man in front of him visibly relaxed slightly and shifted the aim of the silenced weapon away.

_"In Russian, you fool," _the man ordered, stepping closer. Incredibly, he kept the pistol aimed at the unconscious Rivkin, as if he was afraid the Mossad officer was going to suddenly sprout knives from his hands like Wolverine. _A little closer, you moron, _Tony urged. He tightened his grip on Michael's thin phone – it wasn't a roll of pennies, but it would certainly do the trick.

_"What?" _Tony asked, still speaking in Spanish. _"I do not understand you." _The gunman glared and swung the pistol toward DiNozzo…

And Tony struck.

With his left hand, he batted away the pistol, grabbing the man's wrist and twisting hard. At the same time, he slammed his right fist – and the nice, narrow cell phone – into the gunman's throat with as much force as he could muster. He felt the man's trachea crumple underneath the impact of the blow and quickly grabbed the pistol when the gunman reflexively dropped it so his hands could dart to his throat. Struggling to suck in oxygen, the man gave Tony a horrified look, but DiNozzo barely hesitated as he raised the captured pistol to the gunman's head and squeezed the trigger once. As the man toppled, Tony hoped that the ghosts of the civilians this dirtbag had murdered could rest a little bit easier.

Tony knew he certainly wouldn't.

Moving quickly, he crossed the distance to the door and risked a quick glance out, grimacing at the sight of several familiar bodies on the floor of the garage beyond. There were at least six hostiles still moving through the garage area, silenced weapons at the ready, and DiNozzo felt a surge of righteous fury swell through him when he caught sight of one of the local Mossad operatives – it was that young punk who had asked the stupid question about Tony being armed – interacting with them as if they were old friends.

Girlish screams echoed through the warehouse, but were cut off sharply, and DiNozzo bit back the urge to howl with fury. He hadn't gotten to know her very well, but Nastya had reminded him so much of Abby that he felt his blood boiling. He wanted these scumbuckets dead. All of them.

"Think, DiNozzo," he muttered to himself. Risking a glance in Michael's direction, he frowned darkly. Rivkin was useless right now – from past experience, Tony knew the Mossad officer would be unconscious for at least another two hours – and there wasn't a chance in hell that Tony was going to just abandon him here. They needed a distraction or some way to cull the number of bad guys after them, preferably both. DiNozzo crouched and peeked through the cracked doorway once more.

The garage he was looking into was fairly large, maybe thirty or forty feet across, and was, for the most part, little more than a big, square building. Most of the facilities were on the ground floor, but there was a second-storey which contained the 'offices' that were actually rudimentary sleeping quarters. Piotr – who was probably dead now – had offered Tony one of those rooms, but he'd declined and slept in the infirmary instead. Michael was his partner, after all, and it was his duty to keep an eye on the man, even if they were ostensibly safe. He had explained his reasoning – Rivkin needed a familiar face to greet him when he woke up or he might just freak out – but the truth was more pernicious; as much as he hated to admit it, DiNozzo knew he was infected with the institutionalized paranoia that plagued all intelligence field agents. Just like Eric Bana's character in _Munich, _he was starting to jump at shadows and the closet actually seemed like a safe place to sleep in these days.

As he scanned the garage floor for something useful, Tony caught sight of several large propane tanks half-hidden behind a parked Jeep ripoff. He grinned – it would be a difficult shot, but he figured he could make it. Closing the door, he half-ran, half-crouched to where his gear was stowed. Unzipping the backpack, he darted to the nearby medicine cabinet, opened it and swept all of paraphernalia within – drugs, syringes, bandages, and other weird-looking medical sundries – into the pack. Michael's gear he dumped on the gurney alongside his pack before unplugging all of the medical equipment Rivkin was hooked up to. Doctor Ivan – who was probably also dead – had already said Mike was going to make it so the heart monitor and IV drip just weren't important anymore, not with a bunch of no-neck thugs just outside their door trying to kill them both. Twice, Tony froze and pointed his silenced pistol in the direction of the door, convinced he'd heard someone just outside, but both times turned out to be false alarms.

The crackle of a radio caused him to quickly glance in the direction of the man he'd just killed, and Tony quickly patted the corpse down. He stripped the man of the bulletproof vest and donned it without hesitation. The radio he barely glanced at, but the two flashbangs attached to the vest caused him to smile tightly. Masculine voices started calling out in Russian – it sounded like a name – and Tony retraced his steps to the door. He took up a position beside it when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps and, when the door opened, he was safely concealed behind it. Another gunman stepped in, attention riveted on Michael and the corpse next to the gurney.

He didn't even see Tony level the pistol and fire.

Grabbing the second corpse's pistol and jamming it into his belt, DiNozzo peeked out of the doorway and took careful aim at the propane tanks. He breathed in slowly, then exhaled. To his surprised delight, the Young Punk stepped out from behind the parked Jeep and, with another of the gunmen, stopped directly beside the tanks.

"Goodbye, dirtbag," Tony murmured as he squeezed the trigger.

The resulting explosion was … spectacular. Fire enveloped the two men but the concussive force threw them across the warehouse where they smacked into the wall with meaty thunks. The Jeep was actually knocked over, so intense was the blast, and an entire section of the warehouse wall was virtually vaporized. As he slid through the doorway, the pistol at the ready, Tony could hear another man shrieking in agony. Two men darted into his field of fire – both were wearing identical gear as the other gunmen and one of them was actually carrying a fire extinguisher. Tony hesitated only a second before taking aim once more. The round slammed into the extinguisher, causing it to erupt in a noxious white cloud. More screams joined the first and one of the two men staggered out of the cloud of carbon dioxide, bleeding profusely from shrapnel wounds from the ruptured extinguisher. He toppled to the ground without a sound and did not move again.

Throwing open the door, Tony grabbed Michael's gurney with his left hand and began dragging it across the garage. Three of the four vehicles parked inside didn't look to be functional thanks to the propane tank explosion – the upside-down Jeep was certainly useless – and DiNozzo sighed the moment he realized that Nastya's SUV was still intact. He weaved through the debris, having to fight with the gurney at least twice, and finally reached the truck. Manhandling a thoroughly unconscious Michael Rivkin into the backseat was harder than he expected it to be, and he silently gave thanks that the Mossad officer was so well drugged. Without the keys, Tony had to hotwire the SUV, but mere seconds later, he was pulling out of the ruined warehouse and gunning the engine. There were three parked cars outside the main entrance that he did not recognize, but none of them had anyone inside.

He drove for nearly ten minutes before his brain finally caught up and his hands began to shake. Bile churned within his stomach – he was a cop, dammit! He wasn't trained for this crap! With each passing second, the situation looked even worse than before. Drantyev's organization had penetrated a Mossad safehouse, for God's sake! Michael wouldn't be of any use if the bastards found them and Tony wondered just who the hell he could trust.

"Get a grip!" he told himself before turning onto an alley sandwiched between two fairly large but otherwise normal looking buildings. Before he realized it, he had pulled the cell phone out of his pocket and dialed a number.

_"Shalom," _a familiar voice answered. Tony exhaled in relief.

"It's me," he said. "I need your help."


	36. Things Fall Apart, 36: Ziva

**A/N:** This chapter takes place mostly concurrently with the previous two chapters. It also takes place just after 4x14 "Blowback."

By this point, the story has gone _completely _AU (as if it hadn't already.) There will be no additional references to canon episodes set later in the "timeline" of season 4, although I reserve the right to steal events from those eps as appropriate.

* * *

**Ziva**

She stared at the phone in shock. Of all the people who could have called her on this particular line, his was the last name that came to mind.

"Tony?" she said hesitantly, unable to fully hide the smile blooming on her face even as she silently chastised herself for being so … girly. He was just another ex-lover, nothing more, nothing less.

"Our safehouse was blown," DiNozzo began and Ziva felt her giddiness at hearing his voice evaporate almost instantly, "and Michael is injured. I need your help, Ziva."

"You have it," she said without hesitation as she sat up. "Where are you?"

"Moscow." Ziva grimaced as she rolled off of her small cot and sprinted toward Moshe's computer station. It was still partially intact – Hadar's extraction team was scheduled to arrive tomorrow morning for their prisoner – and the computer tech jumped in surprise at her sudden appearance. He hit a few keys, minimizing the Elflord game that he had been playing on his laptop.

_"I need an immediate flight to Moscow," _she snapped in Hebrew. _"Now!" _she growled when he hesitated.

_"Yes, Officer David," _Moshe replied quickly.

"Can you find someplace to hide?" Ziva asked into the phone. "Somewhere off the beaten road?"

"Beaten path," Tony corrected absently. He sounded exhausted. "I've got to ditch this truck first," he said. "They killed Nastya and might be able to track it that way."

"Good," Ziva said, not bothering to inquire as to who this Nastya person was. There was no time to focus on anything but the essentials. "Destroy the cell phone you are using after I hang up," she instructed, "and then purchase a few prepaid ones at a local kiosk."

"Right," Tony said. "Got it."

_"Officer David," _Moshe interjected, and Ziva glanced at him, her expression demanding he speak. _"There is a flight leaving Sevilla in ninety minutes," _he said. _"You can be in Moscow in six hours."_

_"Get me on that flight," _she ordered. "Tony," she said calmly, "I will be there in eight hours."

"Okay." DiNozzo was silent for a moment. "How do I contact you?" he asked and Ziva nearly cursed at getting ahead of herself.

"In five hours," she instructed smoothly, "call my father on a clean line. He will give you contact information." Ziva bit her lower lip. "And try to stay out of trouble, Tony," she added after another long second of silence. "Stay safe."

"See you tomorrow," DiNozzo said before terminating the connection. Ziva pinned Moshe with a fierce look.

_"Contact Officer Stavi," _she ordered, naming the one Mossad officer she could think of whose allegiances she did not question in the slightest, _"and tell her to get her ass to Moscow. Tell her that it is like she and I are back in Tehran."_ The computer tech nodded quickly as Ziva tossed her phone onto his desk – it would have to be destroyed now – and grabbed another one from their box of clean lines. She retraced her steps to her cot and spent several long minutes cramming essentials into a backpack, her mind racing a thousand kilometers a minute. Quickly donning the nondescript leather jacket and trousers that had come with their racing bike, she double-checked her gear before looping her arms through the backpack's straps.

_"Here are your flight documents and passport," _Moshe announced as she rejoined him at the table. _"Sevilla is nearly a hundred and fifty kilometers away," _he started to say, but Ziva ignored him as she stuffed the documents into a pocket and zipped it up.

_"Livni is in charge until Officer Hadar arrives," _she said as she pulled the helmet on over her head and straddled the Ducati 996. A street cycle, it was rated to have a top speed of two hundred and fifty-nine kilometers an hour. Ziva intended to test that.

She arrived at the Sevilla airport just under forty minutes later, quite satisfied at how well the Ducati had handled, and, after parking the bike – someone in Mossad would eventually recover it – Ziva made a beeline for the check-in counter. To her relief, there were no problems with her reservations, and she had her ticket in hand mere minutes later. With nothing to do but wait until the plane began boarding, she tracked down the first available payphone and dialed a number she knew from memory.

_"Shalom," _her father greeted.

_"This is an unsecure line," _Ziva said instantly. _"I'm heading east to back up my two old partners," _she continued, knowing he would get the reference. _"They were not impressed with the location and _had_ to find alternate lodgings."_

_"I see," _Eli David rumbled, a dangerous edge creeping into his voice. Ziva winced as she imagined how he would respond to the discovery that a Mossad safehouse had been compromised. Heads would soon roll, quite possibly literally depending on what he discovered. _"Should I expect a call later?" _he asked.

_"Yes," _Ziva replied. She pulled out her clean line and glanced at the coded number on the back. _"I have the three three six phone with me once you hear from them."_

_"Understood," _her father said. _"I will be waiting for your call."_ Ziva hung up and sank down in the nearest plastic chair to wait for the final boarding call. It took every gram of her willpower to avoid fidgeting but she could not stop her imagination from running wild. A thousand different scenarios tumbled through her mind and, in every one of them, Tony was already dead when she arrived. By the time she boarded the plane, Ziva was nearly vibrating with anger and fear and worry.

She transferred to another plane in Barcelona, and Moshe had somehow arranged for her to have the seat closest to the exit on the second leg of the trip so she could be the first person off once they taxied to a stop. Exactly five hours and forty minutes after she left Spain, Ziva entered Terminal C of the Sheremetyevo International Airport just as the sun was reappearing in the sky, her heart was thumping like mad. She turned on her cellphone as she weaved through the crowds. As expected, her father had sent her a text message consisting of an address and the name of a car rental agency. The vehicle waiting for her at that agency had a package taped under the driver's seat consisting of a Glock knock-off made in Czechoslovakia (with the serial numbers filed away, of course), four magazines of ammo filled with jacketed hollow points, and a hundred thousand Euros in non-sequential bills.

Ziva spent the next several hours criss-crossing the city in an attempt to throw off any pursuers. She drove erratically but not dangerously, as befit a tourist who did not know the lay of the land, and quickly identified the two different teams following her. Unsure whether they were legitimate Russian authorities or just very bad men who had been waiting for her in the hopes she would lead them to Tony and Michael, Ziva ditched her rental car outside a restaurant. Cutting through the kitchen, she exited out the back and hotwired the first vehicle she found to aid in her getaway. Three cars (and one truck) later, she was satisfied that she had lost anyone following her and headed toward the address her father had sent her. She was not worried about anyone intercepting the text and beating her to it – the numbers on the address were switched around and the street name given was the one directly to the west of the actual location. It was an old trick Eli David had taught her while she was growing up.

She abandoned her latest stolen car three blocks away from her destination and walked the rest of the way, shivering slightly in the cool air. The leather biking jacket and trousers actually helped keep her warmer than she would be otherwise and Ziva circled the target building twice (just to make sure that there weren't any stragglers following her) before approaching the door. She smiled tightly when she caught sight of a jury-rigged early warning device that looked to have been constructed using a flashbang.

"Jean Paul?" she called out softly. "It is me, Sophie."

"Watch your step," Tony's voice replied just as quietly. The door opened just enough for Ziva to slip through without triggering the flashbang – she would have to move it later to someplace less obtrusive – and she exhaled in relief when she saw that Tony appeared to be uninjured. There were dark shadows under his eyes, though, and he looked like he had not slept well in weeks. Seeing him with a silenced pistol in hand caused her to blink in mild surprise, and the light beard he had cultivated at some point in the recent past seemed completely wrong for his face even if it did a good job of making him not look like NCIS Special Agent Anthony D. DiNozzo. They stared at one another for long, silent moments, neither able to voice the words that needed to be said, and Ziva swallowed the lump that seemed permanently lodged in her throat.

"Are you well?" she finally managed to ask. He grunted – it had a very Gibbs-like sound to it – before jerking his head in the direction of a door.

"Better than Mike," he said. "You read Russian, right?"

_"Da," _Ziva replied with a hesitant smile.

"I grabbed all of the drugs they had at the safehouse before I ran," Tony explained as he led her into a living area that looked to have been last occupied sometime in the fifties. A threadbare couch was pressed up against the wall to the left of the door and a narrow bed with a ratty mattress was directly across from it. Michael was atop the bed, his eyes closed but sweat dripped off his brow despite the chill in the air. He shifted around in his sleep, grunting and murmuring soft words that Ziva could not quite understand. "Unfortunately," DiNozzo continued as he gestured to the wide assortment of glass phials and tiny bottles, "the labels are all in Russian so I can't find the painkillers." Ziva nodded and glanced through the drugs.

"This one," she identified, reaching for a plastic package containing a sterile syringe. Moments later, Michael's sleep was untroubled as the drugs set in. "I have already had Dana contacted," Ziva announced as she glanced around the tiny room, noting the three pistols and half dozen knives on the table in front of the couch. "She should be on her way to help us."

"Good," Tony muttered. "We can trust her." He took up a place near the one window and glanced outside. To her mild disgust, Ziva felt a flash of jealousy at how glad DiNozzo seemed to be that Stavi was en route. His next words caught her completely unprepared. "Maybe with her here," he said, "Mike will finally stop calling out her name in his sleep."

"Truly?" Ziva asked, wetting her lips slightly as she discreetly observed Tony. His clothes were rumpled and creased, seeming to indicate that he had been wearing them for several days now. He looked to be on the verge of complete collapse and, from past experience, she knew how draining it was to be in the situation he was in. Alone, in a foreign country, with a badly wounded partner, surrounded by hostiles out to kill you… it made for good drama on television or the movies but in real life was not something sane persons aspired for.

"You sure you weren't followed?" Tony asked abruptly. He gave her a wild-eyed look and Ziva mentally flinched. Obviously, DiNozzo was closer to collapse than she had originally thought.

"I am," she replied calmly. "I am here now, Tony," she said, crossing the short distance to where he stood to look him in the eye. The urge to reach out and touch his face was overwhelming, even though she knew it was inappropriate at the moment. "You should get some rest. I will keep watch for you."

"There's no way in hell I'm gonna sleep anytime soon," DiNozzo said. He leaned back against the wall, tilting his head up to look at the ceiling. "Way too wired right now," he added.

"At least sit down for a few minutes," Ziva suggested. She recognized the signs well – all he needed was to relax and he would be out like a lamp. Or was that a light? Stupid English. "Just for a minute, Tony," she urged when he donned a mulish look. "Please?"

"Okay," he mumbled as he sank down onto the couch. "Just for a few minutes. But then, we've gotta talk about our next step."

He was asleep seconds later.

Smiling softly, Ziva spent the next several minutes struggling to get his uncooperative – and _heavy! – _body into a more comfortable position. His legs were too long for the tiny couch, but she managed to get him more or less horizontal. He barely stirred when she tugged the pistol out of his hand and placed it on the table alongside the other three.

"Dana?" Michael called out softly in his sleep. Ziva brushed Tony's hair out of his eyes as she gave Rivkin a sidelong look. He was partially awake and looking at her through bleary eyes.

_"No,"_ she said in Hebrew. _"I am not Dana."_ She smirked, suddenly unable to hold onto the anger she'd felt at this man for hurting her the way he did. _"Go back to sleep, Michael. Dana will be here soon."_

Smiling, Michael Rivkin obeyed.

And Ziva got to work.


	37. Things Fall Apart, 37: Tony

**A/N:** By this point, the story has gone _completely _AU (as if it hadn't already.) There will be no additional references to canon episodes set later in the "timeline" of season 4, although I reserve the right to steal events from those eps as appropriate.

* * *

**Tony**

He could not tear his eyes away from her.

Underneath the laminated plastic, the wide smile on her face was captured for eternity but the poor quality of the small photograph showed only a hint of her vivacious personality. There was no sign of the sparkle that had been in her eyes when she laughed and she looked like any other girl her age, with her entire life ahead of her. She had everything to look forward to.

But now she was dead and it was all his fault.

"Who is she?" Ziva's soft voice asked from over his shoulder, and Tony jumped. He hated that she could still sneak up on him like that, despite what he'd been doing for last eight months. Glowering, DiNozzo crammed Nastya's driver's license into his pocket and climbed to his feet. The expression on Ziva's face was, to his surprise, not an accusatory one, but rather a curious and vaguely understanding one, which prompted Tony to wonder if Michael had talked to her about what happened during one of his more lucid moments.

This was their third 'hideout' in as many days, and Tony knew that, since Dana had finally arrived, they would soon be on the move once more. Now that the band was all here, they could focus on getting Michael the hell out of Russia and someplace safe so he could recover from the bullet wounds in his stomach. And then, once he was better, he could help Tony bring the bastards responsible for killing an innocent girl who had just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time to justice.

The feel of Ziva's eyes on him caused Tony to shift self-consciously. They hadn't had an opportunity to really talk since she walked through the door of that abandoned apartment, dark hair framing her lovely face like an unruly halo. DiNozzo had slept for most of the first day, only rousing when she shook him awake so they could relocate to another hideout under the cover of darkness. After settling Michael in and making sure he was as comfortable as possible in their crappy situation, they had eyed one another warily for the second day, communicating only in grunts and cautious looks. Tony knew she wanted to say something to him – he could think of a whole laundry list of things he wanted to say to her too – but the eight month separation between them made it hard to find the right words.

"Are we ready to head out?" Tony finally asked, ignoring her question about the driver's license. He didn't want Ziva to know how badly he'd screwed up, how an innocent girl was dead because he wasn't smart enough or competent enough to keep her alive.

"Yes," Ziva replied cautiously. She frowned tightly as she glanced over her shoulder to where Dana was sitting on the bed and watching the unconscious man resting there with unblinking eyes. Stavi was about five minutes away from a panic attack over Mike's condition and, if it wasn't so sad, Tony would have thought it was funny. "We need to acquire another vehicle," Ziva continued carefully. "Something large enough for all four of us but not so big that we will attract notice."

"So a Hummer is right out then," Tony muttered.

"Yes," Ziva said without even cracking a smile. That was another thing DiNozzo had noticed since her arrival; apart from the smiles she'd given him when she first appeared, she'd been so cold that he'd begun to wonder if her face was carved from rock. He prayed it was just her 'work face,' and not a deep-rooted disgust with him. On the heels of that came a wave of self-loathing. Why _wouldn't _she be disgusted with him? How many innocent Russians had died in the last week because he was pretending to be something he wasn't? "A discreet sports utility vehicle would be best, though," she continued, her words breaking into his train of thought. "Dana," she called out, and Stavi half-turned to face her but didn't look away from Michael's face. "Tony and I are going to find transport." DiNozzo's eyes widened slightly at how easily Ziva had assumed command of this entire operation and at the assumption that he would just obey her instructions without question. Almost at once, though, he realized that he _would._

"I have your number," Dana replied, gesturing with her pistol as she spoke. "There is a truck dealership ten or fifteen kilometers north of here," she added. "I would check there first."

_"Do not let yourself get distracted," _Ziva hissed in Hebrew to Dana as Tony pulled on a jacket to conceal his shoulder holster. He wondered if his old partner was aware that he understood what she was saying before deciding it didn't matter. _"We will be back as soon as possible."_

Once outside, Ziva secured a concealed makeshift IED to the door and double-checked the placement of the flash-bang while Tony kept an eye on the empty street. They skirted Dana's parked motorcycle and climbed into the tiny two-door sedan that they had 'borrowed' yesterday. Ziva slid into the driver's seat and Tony made no comment; she knew Moscow better than he did anyway and her photographic memory would make navigation much easier.

Neither of them spoke as she drove and it was, Tony reflected with dark amusement, the _loudest _silence he'd ever experienced. He wondered when things had gotten so bad, when he couldn't even find the words for the woman next to him. _When Gibbs came back, _his brain supplied bitterly as they circled the truck dealership.

"My father," Ziva finally said, her voice hushed and surprisingly hesitant, as if she was having problems figuring out what to say as well, "is investigating the breach that forced you on the run." She gave him a quick, sidelong glance and Tony grunted noncommittally. He wasn't sure if he really trusted anyone in Mossad anymore outside of the three officers here with him now. "He was … displeased that you and Michael were put into danger."

"And what about everyone else?" Tony growled. His fingers wrapped around the small square of plastic in his pocket. Once again, Ziva shot him a quick look.

"Who was she, Tony?" she asked carefully. DiNozzo sighed.

"An innocent girl," he replied without looking at her, "who is dead because of me." He closed his eyes for a heartbeat. "She was minding her own business until I carjacked her and forced her to drive me and Mike to the safehouse that, as it turned out, wasn't particularly safe in the first place." Tony shook his head. "Just another picture for my wall, I guess," he muttered.

"You cannot blame yourself for what happened to her," Ziva remarked. Tony snorted.

"_Watch me_," he replied crossly. "She had her entire fucking life ahead of her until I pointed a gun at her." His expression darkened. "I killed her right then, even if I didn't pull the damned trigger."

"Tony…" Ziva started, but was cut off by the loud shrill of her cell phone. She visibly tensed as she grabbed it and Tony felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up when she flipped the phone open.

"Ziva!" Dana's voice erupted from the tiny speaker, followed immediately by the sound of an explosion. "I need backup!"

Ziva wheeled the sedan around without a moment of hesitation, dropping her phone to the floor as she did, and the car fish-tailed wildly as she gunned the engine. Horns blared as other commuters reacted to her unexpected maneuver, but Tony barely reacted as he pulled his Sig from the shoulder holster to check the ammo. He gave her a single look – her jaw was clenched so tight that the muscles in them were nearly vibrating – before turning to face forward once more.

"How did they find us?" he wondered as Ziva weaved through the light traffic. The tiny sedan's engine howled in protest at the abuse.

"They must have followed Dana," she replied coolly before shaking her head. "But that does not make sense. Dana is a professional. She would not make a mistake like this." Ziva shook her head and neither of them voiced the thought that they had to be sharing: what if _Dana _had betrayed them? It was a chilling notion. "When we get there," she ordered, "do not hesitate. Shoot to kill." In response, Tony jacked a round into the chamber of his Sig.

"This ain't my first time at the rodeo," he said. Ziva frowned at the quote and DiNozzo almost smiled. Almost. "Faye Dunaway," he said automatically, his brain jumping to random nonsense to avoid thinking about what they were charging into, "1981, _Mommie Dearest."_ He shuddered. "She kind of reminded me of _my _mom, to be perfectly honest. Scared the crap outta me." Ziva lips tightened, as if she wanted to say something, but she instead clenched her jaw tighter and focused on the road in front of them.

They rounded the corner leading to the apartment at an insanely high rate of speed. Three vehicles – Tony wasn't sure if they were supposed to be trucks or station wagons – were parked outside their hideout and DiNozzo could see gunmen firing into the building from behind the cars. The door leading into the apartment was gone, a victim of the IED Ziva had secured to it, and two smoking bodies were already sprawled out in front of it.

"Hold on!" Ziva exclaimed as she mashed her foot onto the accelerator once more. The sedan leaped forward like a bat out of hell and they somehow reached the gunfight without any of the distracted hostiles noticing their approach. Before Tony realized what she was doing, Ziva rammed the sedan into one of the parked truck-wagons with such force that it slid backwards into another of the vehicles. With an explosion of white, the car's airbags deployed, smacking them both in the face like a prizefighter and bouncing DiNozzo's head off the back of his seat. Stars danced in his vision for a moment but he was alive.

The poor bastard sandwiched between the sedan and Ziva's target wasn't so lucky.

Gunfire boomed around them, snapping Tony out of the momentary daze he was in and he half-climbed, half-fell out of the sedan. Glass shattered as bullets whizzed by and adrenaline coursed through his body, ripping him out of the punch drunk state he was in. A pair of figures popped over the ruined truck-wagon and sprayed the ruined sedan with a hail of poorly aimed bullets, but Tony was already responding. He fired twice, mostly to send the two men scurrying for cover so he could find some himself, before throwing himself into a headlong dive reminiscent of sliding into home plate. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ziva sprinting out of the shattered wreck of a car, her own pistol at the ready.

Risking a glance to the side, Tony caught sight of three men, armed with submachine guns, darting into the building. The sounds of gunfire greeted them, letting DiNozzo know that Dana and Michael were still in the fight. Glancing around, he found Ziva backed up against the building, exchanging shots with the two men who had sprayed wildly at DiNozzo moments ago. Biting back a curse, Tony sprang forward, covering the short distance with long, distance-eating strides. He emptied his magazine in their direction, the sheer volume of fire forcing them to stop shooting at Ziva and duck, and the Mossad officer seized the opportunity. With four quick, perfectly placed shots, she dropped the two men just as Tony reached her side. He ejected the spent magazine from his Sig and slammed home a new one.

"On three," Ziva murmured. Tony nodded and watched her lips as she mouthed the numbers. They twisted around the corner in perfect harmony, her crouching to take low while he aimed high. Another pair of SMG-wielding gunmen came into sight and Tony fired rapidly. One of the men fell – he was clearly dead from the round through the left eye from DiNozzo's pistol – and the second dove behind one of the parked truck-wagons. "Cover me!" Ziva snapped as she darted forward. Tony growled a curse as he obeyed, emptying a second magazine as she sprinted to one of the bodies and retrieved his submachine gun. She nodded to Tony as he ejected the second mag and reloaded in a single, smooth move. When the third man popped up to take a shot at Tony, she was waiting and sent him to the ground in a hail of bullets.

At Ziva's hand gesture, Tony sprinted toward the door leading into the apartment. She was bare steps behind him and they took up positions on either side of the blackened entranceway. This time, he began counting off with his fingers and, on three, they entered, weapons at the ready.

Nothing could prepare Tony for what they saw inside.


	38. Things Fall Apart, 38: Michael

**A/N:** By this point, the story has gone _completely _AU (as if it hadn't already.) There will be no additional references to canon episodes set later in the "timeline" of season 4, although I reserve the right to steal events from those eps as appropriate.

* * *

**Michael**

This had to be a dream.

He had imagined Dana being with him so many times over the last week that Michael had stopped trusting his senses as her presence would inevitably turn out to be an illusion brought on by drugs. Whoever this person was, with their soft hands and soothing words, it was not Dana. She was on the other side of the world, living her life with no regrets. She certainly was not sitting at his side, holding his hand and softly singing an old lullaby his mother had used to get them both to sleep when they were children.

_"Go away," _he muttered in Hebrew. _"You are not actually here, so please go away."_

_"But what if I _am _here?" _a voice that sounded suspiciously like Dana asked. Michael licked his lips and cracked his eyelids, drawing in a sharp breath at her distinctive smile. He blinked several times, halfway expecting her to disappear or turn into a fat, bearded Russian man who spoke very poor Hebrew.

"Dana?" he asked hesitantly. _"Is this a dream?" _Her smile turned into a grin.

_"If it is," _she said, _"you are wearing too many clothes and I'd much rather be in Bermuda_._" _She cupped his face with her hand and Michael leaned into the caress, unable to tear his eyes away from her. _"Tony and Ziva have gone to get us a new vehicle," _Dana told him, _"and once they get back, we will get out of this miserable country." _She started to pull back, but Michael gripped her hand and anchored her in place on the bed.

_"I'm sorry," _he said passionately. Dana gave him a frown.

_"For what?" _she asked curiously.

_"For _everything," Michael said. _"For saying things to you I should not have said, for not letting you know how much I love you, for letting you go…" _He trailed off at the expression on her face; he was not sure if it was amused or touched. After a second, he decided that he would rather it was the former.

_"Ani ohevet otcha," _Dana murmured softly before leaning forward to kiss him lightly. _"It takes two to salsa," _she remarked. Michael smiled.

_"Tango," _he corrected. _"I'm sorry," _he repeated.

_"I forgive you," _she said. _"Can you forgive me?"_ Michael opened his mouth to respond, to tell her that she had done nothing needing forgiveness, but the screech of braking tires outside the apartment caused them both to react. Dana rose to her feet in a single, smooth movement, pulling her pistol from its holster, as Michael forced himself to sit up. His eyes were locked on her as she darted to the window. A soft curse escaped her lips as she pulled her cell phone from where it was hanging on her belt.

_"Three cars," _she said, _"looks like ten to twelve hostiles."_ She glanced in Michael's direction. _"Prepare yourself," _she ordered as she dialed a number on the phone with her thumb. Nodding, Rivkin pushed himself to his feet and staggered across the tiny room to the rickety-looking table in the kitchen area. Three pistols were resting atop it and Michael grabbed the first one.

"Ziva!" Dana said quickly into the phone a half second before an explosion rocked the building. "I need backup!" She dropped the cell at the sound of footsteps and drew a bead on the doorway. Bare seconds later, two men appeared, submachine guns at the ready. Dana's pistol boomed and one of the men spun around, blood spraying from his ruined throat. The other man reacted instantly, darting back around the corner even as he sprayed wildly with his MP-5. Rounds punched through the plaster walls and shattered glass, but Dana paid it no mind as she crouched and continued to fire.

The windows overlooking the street suddenly exploded as the gunmen outside opened up with their weapons. Adrenaline and fear coursed through Michael's veins, washing away the pain lancing through his abdomen, and he scrambled to one of the windows so he could return fire. His shots were relatively indiscriminate – they were outgunned and in a bad tactical location – but sent the shooters scrambling for cover nonetheless. He ducked back into cover to reload and glanced in Dana's direction, noting instantly that she had dropped the second man with a well-placed shot and had already retrieved his SMG. Tossing him a saucy grin, she ducked through the doorway leading into the apartment foyer and, a second later, he heard the distinctive retort of the MP-5.

Tires screeched loudly and Michael glanced out the window a heartbeat before a two-door sedan slammed into one of the parked trucks with crushing force, pinning one of the gunmen between the two vehicles and virtually cutting him in half. Tony and Ziva rolled out of the car a heartbeat later, their sidearms roaring. Rivkin started to smile.

Gunfire exploded from the foyer, too much to just be Dana's weapon alone, and Michael's heart froze in his chest. He sprang forward, his still-healing abdomen burning and panic turning his muscles into water. A figure too tall to be Dana appeared in his line of sight and Michael fired instinctively. The figure – a man – fell back, gasping as his hand instinctively went to cover the gushing wound in his stomach, but Michael barely noticed. His eyes were already locked on Dana.

She was on her back, sightless eyes staring at the ceiling. Blood was pooling around her and her shirt, once the purest of white, was stained crimson. Around her were the bodies of four men, all dead. Ice seized Michael's heart and he froze in place, unable to look away from her face. She looked so peaceful.

A groan caused him to turn toward the man he'd just shot and Michael watched dispassionately as the gunman tried to half crawl toward his MP-5. Rivkin barely hesitated as he lifted his pistol, aimed and fired. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. The man shrieked as the rounds shattered his kneecaps and elbows, but Michael didn't care. His vision was filled only with Dana's face.

"Oh, God." Tony's voice broke through the shock that had enveloped Michael and Rivkin glanced up, noting that DiNozzo and Ziva had entered. The NCIS agent was still carrying his Sig, but Officer David had armed herself with a submachine gun. Her eyes – flinty and hard and so much older than her physical years – met his and Michael nodded at the question he saw there. She frowned, glanced at the still living gunman and her face hardened.

"Tony," she said in a voice that brooked no dissent, "we still need a vehicle." DiNozzo blinked, glanced between her, Michael, Dana's body and the groaning Russian before grimacing. He nodded, his own features turning cold and hard.

"On it." He ducked back through the doorway, holstering the Sig as he did.

"Be careful," Ziva whispered, though Michael doubted that Tony heard her. A moment later, a motorcycle engine roared to life. _"We do not have much time," _Ziva said in Hebrew. Her eyes softened. _"See to Dana," _she instructed. Michael nodded as she stepped closer to the gunman but could not make his legs move. All he could do was stare at Dana. _"How did you track us?" _Ziva demanded of their prisoner in perfect Russian. The man groaned before spitting in her direction. She frowned as she crouched before the man and placed the barrel of the MP-5 against his thigh. _"The human body can withstand _considerable _damage if one knows where to place it," _she said before pulling the trigger. With a crack, a single round punched through the meaty section of the man's leg and he screamed. _"How did you track us?" _she repeated, shifting the barrel of the SMG to an identical spot on his other leg.

_"Through a cell phone," _the man gasped. _"GPS chip in it. We followed it from the airport." _The expression that flashed across Ziva's face was gone nearly before Michael noticed it and her eyes slid briefly to Dana's body. It took a long moment for the pieces to fall into place for him, but when it did, Rivkin felt a rush of fury at the realization that Dana's phone – a _clean _line likely issued to her by the Israeli Embassy in D.C. – had been compromised. That could mean only one thing.

There was another traitor in Mossad.

_"Who was the target?" _Ziva asked. When the gunman hesitated, she pulled the trigger. His scream was, to Michael's ears, more satisfying than it should have been. Ziva shifted the MP-5 once more, this time placing the barrel against the man's bicep.

_"A Mossad officer," _the Russian gasped. _"Him," _he added, half nodding toward Michael. _"Please," _the man whined, _"I need a doctor."_ Ziva's eyes narrowed and she stood.

_"Be quick about it," _she told Michael in Hebrew. _"We are running out of time."_ She headed for the doorway, pausing only long enough to push a knife into his hands. Rivkin grunted as he limped to the crippled man. He dropped to his knees in front of the Russian and gestured to Dana.

_"Do you see that woman?" _he asked softly in Russian. _"I loved her." _Comprehension began to dawn in the gunman's eyes and terror began to replace fear. _"I was going to marry her, if she would have had me."_

_"Please…"_

_"You took that chance away from me," _Michael hissed as he brandished Ziva's blade. The Russian inhaled sharply, but Rivkin ignored him as he brought the blade down – _hard. _It sliced easily through skin and clothes, and the man screamed in agony. Michael applied more pressure and was rewarded with a gush of crimson. _"I have just cut the femoral artery in your leg," _he said calmly. _"You will lose consciousness in a few moments."_ He locked eyes with the man.

And waited.

Behind him, Ziva was busy gathering their gear and preparing for their escape, but Michael's attention was firmly locked on the eyes of the man rapidly bleeding to death in front of him. He ignored the Russian's pleas for mercy and barely blinked as he watched the light in the man's eyes begin to dim. As the gunman began to slide toward unconsciousness, Michael slapped him across the face to make sure he had the man's waning attention before placing the barrel of his pistol against the man's forehead.

"HaShem_ spoke to Moses, saying, take vengeance for the Children of Israel," _Michael quoted coldly. _"Dana was a child of Israel."_

He squeezed the trigger.

"We need to go, Michael," Ziva said several moments later. She placed a hand on his shoulder and Rivkin gave her a nod. When he struggled to stand – the fire in his stomach muscles was nearly unbearable now – she pulled him upright and helped steady him. To his surprise, he discovered that she had somehow put Dana in a body bag without him noticing. "They brought them in their trucks," Ziva answered his unspoken question. "It appears they were very confident."

"With good reason, it appears," Michael said. He took a step toward Dana, but Ziva held him back.

"I've got her, Mike," Tony stated sadly. DiNozzo's presence caused Rivkin to jerk in surprise – he had not heard the NCIS agent return – but he nodded and watched as Tony knelt before the bag containing Michael's past. Nothing else was said as the three of them exited the tenement building and fast-walked to an idling SUV. Michael barely noticed the onlookers beginning to gather outside. In the distance, he could hear the wail of sirens, but ignored them as he focused on clambering into the back seat of the truck. Dana's body was next to him and he pulled her head down to his lap, unzipping the bag so he could begin carding his fingers through her bloody hair. If he did not know better, he could fool himself into thinking that she was asleep.

Ziva slid behind the steering wheel and exchanged a quick look with Tony, a glance that Michael knew he was not intended to see. They were worried about him, concerned that he would do something … hasty in his grief, but at the same time, were struggling with their guilt over the fact that they were relieved it was not one of them who was dead. A hysterical laugh began building in Michael's chest, but the strangled sound that emerged was more of a sob.

And a moment later, the tears began to fall.


	39. Things Fall Apart, 39: Jethro

**A/N:** By this point, the story has gone _completely _AU (as if it hadn't already.) There will be no additional references to canon episodes set later in the "timeline" of season 4, although I reserve the right to steal events from those eps as appropriate.

* * *

**Jethro**

Overlooking the bullpen, Gibbs found himself watching his team.

So far, none of them seemed aware of his presence as they went about their daily business and Jethro fought a frown at how … professional they appeared. Tim and Lee were debriefing Cassie Yates about their outstanding cases and bringing her up to speed with how things worked now that Tony was no longer a part of the team, but it was devoid of any interaction that wasn't formal. Yates had been on the team for less than twelve hours – it had taken all of yesterday to convince both Jenny and Yates herself that she was a good fit – and already, Jethro could see that he was going to have problems with her. She was dressed immaculately in a sharp-looking business suit and Gibbs couldn't help but to notice how _he _was the only one on his team not wearing clothes that cost more than most people's car payments. He could almost imagine DiNozzo's comment.

_Sears have a sale, Boss?_

Even more telling, though, was the general atmosphere surrounding the major crimes team zone of influence. There weren't any off-color jokes being told, or pranks, or any of the general teasing banter Jethro had come to associate with his people. They were discussing the cases in calm, rational tones, without any movie quotes or screwed-up idioms or McNicknames. For that matter, they weren't laughing and smiling either.

And Jethro _hated _it.

It was a far cry from a year ago, before his Mexican vacation and before the mistakes he'd made that had driven Tony away, and Gibbs grimaced at the notion of spending the next several months like this. He wanted to hear someone say something intentionally stupid to break the tension, or make a hysterical quip that took every bit of his self-control to keep from laughing at. Hell, he'd be fine listening to innuendo-laden comments being tossed around that made him wonder if the two people flirting were just passing time and trying to mess with his head in the process or if they were actually violating rule number twelve. Anything but this … professionalism.

"They seem rather … dour, don't they?" Ducky mused as he stepped forward to lean against the railing next to him. "I'd wager that autopsy is more cheerful at the moment even if Mister Palmer is still nursing a broken heart," he added wryly. Gibbs nodded in agreement and actually sighed.

"Things just aren't the same, Duck," he grumbled. "They haven't been for a while now." Mallard gave him a sidelong look.

"Not since Anthony left, I think," the doctor said calmly. Gibbs frowned.

"Maybe even before then," he remarked before pushing himself off the railing. He took the stairs slowly, discreetly observing McGee as he made his way toward the bullpen. Tim had taken the demotion surprisingly well and, if Jethro didn't know better, had actually seemed glad for it. His work hadn't been affected that Gibbs could see, although he still flinched every time the director entered his line of sight. Not for the first time, Jethro wondered about the nature of the special assignment Jenny had given McGee and found himself questioning her competency. Tim was _not _trained for undercover assignments but the evidence was too obvious to ignore that he was on one anyway.

As he rounded the corner and stepped into view, Jethro noted Michelle Lee's visible reaction to his appearance with some amusement. Her eyes widened and she froze in place, like a deer facing bright headlights. He gave her one of his best knowing smirks and struggled to keep from laughing outright when she flushed bright red and nearly injured herself in a desperate rush to her desk. Ever since he stumbled upon her and Officer Stavi arguing several days ago, the urge to make a smart ass DiNozzo-like comment about her 'it was a drunken mistake and should never have happened' statement to the Mossad officer was building. He'd kept his tongue, though, even if it was one of the hardest things he'd ever done.

It was moments like this that he missed Tony the most.

Dropping into his chair, Jethro opened up his email program and gave it a quick glance. None of the subject lines seemed particularly important – honestly, who cared if Human Resources wanted to schedule more 'sensitivity' training? That garbage was a waste of time – so he clicked on the little X that closed the program without actually reading anything, and instead reached for the stack of files in his in-box. Paperwork never went away, and he tuned out the conversation between McGee and Yates while he worked.

His gut began twisting and snarling several minutes later, and Jethro flipped back to the beginning of the file he was reading in an attempt to figure out what he had missed. For some reason, he couldn't quite focus on the words and glanced up. At the top of the railing, where he had been leaning just outside MTAC a few minutes earlier, Jenny stood. Their eyes met and Gibbs swallowed at what he read in her face.

Something was wrong.

He started to stand with the intent of joining her, but she shook her head and turned toward the stairs leading down to the bullpen. Grunting, Jethro rose anyway, his eyes locked on her approach, and the rest of the team noticed. McGee abandoned Yates and drew abreast of Jethro, instinctively taking the spot that Tony would have previously stood.

"Something wrong, Boss?" Tim asked softly. Gibbs nodded.

"Yes," he said.

"Gibbs!" Abby called out as she rounded a corner to discover him already facing her. She smiled broadly, seemingly unaware of the trouble coming, and shook her head, pig tails flying. "I see your mojo is fully armed and operational!" she declared with a bright grin as she plopped several files on his desk. "I ran the blood samples for the Lucas case again like you suggested," Abby started, but Jethro held up a hand.

"Abs," he said sharply, interrupting her spiel midway. She started to frown before noticing that he – and McGee and Lee and Yates – were watching the director stride toward them. "It can wait," he added. "Something's happened," he guessed as Jenny stopped in front of him.

"Yes," she said with a heavy sigh. "Thirty minutes ago," she began, "there was an explosion at the naval base in Rota." Both Abby and Michelle gasped, even as Gibbs tensed. He could feel McGee shift closer to the Goth to provide comfort. "Special Agents Jim Nelson and Rick Hall were killed," Director Shepard announced grimly. This time, it was Tim who drew in a sharp breath and Jethro wondered which of the two men McGee knew. "And Paula Cassidy is currently listed in critical condition," Jenny continued. Gibbs closed his eyes and balled his fists; he hadn't known Cassidy that well, but she'd been on his team just long enough for him to consider her as part of them.

"What about Tony?" Abby whispered. She moved closer to Tim and grasped his hand.

"Special Agent DiNozzo is fine," Jenny said, glancing away as she answered the question. Jethro grimaced at the way she lied without actually lying; he doubted Tony had even been in Spain when this happened. To his surprise, Shepard pinched the bridge of her nose.

"There's more," Gibbs ventured. She nodded.

"I also just received word that Officer Stavi of Mossad was killed in action last night," she said. She closed her eyes as she continued and Jethro glanced down to avoid the stunned and saddened expressions on the faces of most of his team. "I don't know the specifics," Jenny said, "only that Director David thought we deserved to know."

"I want the Rota bombing," Gibbs declared. He suspected it was probably too much to ask since the Naples MCRT under Patterson would normally handle this, but he owed Paula. And if it put him in Europe where he could lend a hand to DiNozzo if it became necessary, well…

"It's yours," Jenny replied. "I just spoke with Special Agent Patterson and his team will back you up." Her next statement included the entire team. "You're all on the next flight to Spain."

"Go home," Jethro ordered over his shoulder. "Pack your gear and be back in an hour." He caught Abby's arm as she tried to escape. "Not you," he said gently.

"But Gibbs…"

"We need you here, processing the evidence," he said. "Rota is a subordinate office, Abs. They won't have the equipment you have downstairs." For a moment, she actually looked like she was going to argue. "I'll make sure Tony isokay, Abs." Her eyes widened and she nodded.

"All right," she finally mumbled before heading toward the elevator along with the rest of the team. It left him alone with Jenny and he speared her with a look.

"Stavi was in Moscow," he said softly. At the startled expression that flashed across her face, he grimaced. "I heard some of the call," he explained. "Was it from DiNozzo?"

"No," Shepard replied. "It was Ziva." His face must have reflected the flash of worry that twisted in his gut. "She's with Tony," Jenny revealed softly. "He called her for backup and she called in Dana."

"Which means he's in trouble." Gibbs swallowed the urge to punch something.

"He's alive and we're coordinating with Director David for extraction," the director said. She placed a hand on his arm. "There isn't anything you can do for him right now, Jethro," she pointed out. Her eyes narrowed slightly and she lowered her voice. "And Rota is a _lot _closer to Moscow than D.C.," she added conspiratorially. "If it comes down to that, of course."

Gibbs smiled. It was moments like this that he remembered why he fell in love with this woman so many years ago. He nodded and retraced his steps to his desk. Going home wasn't necessary; like all good combat Marines, he already had a bag packed and waiting in the trunk of his car for emergencies like this.

All that was left was the waiting.


	40. Things Fall Apart, 40: Ziva

**A/N:** By this point, the story has gone _completely _AU (as if it hadn't already.) There will be no additional references to canon episodes set later in the "timeline" of season 4, although I reserve the right to steal events from those eps as appropriate.

Also, all of my knowledge of Jewish traditions regarding the dead is based entirely upon internet research since I have no Jewish friends (pretty much all of my acquaintances are either agnostic or nondenominational Christian.) If I make errors, feel free to correct me and I'll adjust the as necessary since no offense is intended.

* * *

**Ziva**

The floor creaked.

Ziva came awake instantly, her hand tightening on the pistol buried underneath the rudimentary pillow she was using. She opened her eyes and quickly glanced around for any signs of hostiles. Tony was still asleep, propped up underneath the far window, and Ziva tried not to frown at the sight of him clutching one of their captured MP-5s in his hand. With the selector switch on 'safe,' the submachine gun could not be fired accidentally, but just seeing Tony carrying it caused a shiver to crawl up her spine. It was bad enough both of them still had black eyes from the deployment of the airbags after she rammed the truck; seeing him with a weapon like that only reminded her of how much things had changed.

Her eyes continued their rapid shift across the room, pausing only briefly at the large shadow that was Michael Rivkin. As he had for the last two days, he was stretched out alongside the body bag containing Dana Stavi and Ziva felt tears prickle her eyes once more. He had insisted on sitting _shmira_ with the body despite his physical inability to do so and refused to leave her outside in their truck alone. Michael's devotion surprised her – she'd always thought he was Jewish by birth, but not by practice – and neither she nor Tony had the heart to deny him this, no matter how dangerous it could be for them all. The anger she'd felt toward Michael for so long seemed like a trite thing now, and she hated herself just a little bit for feeling relieved that it was not Tony in that bag. Would she be able to react any differently than Michael if that were the case?

The walls of the abandoned farmhouse groaned as the wind outside began to pick up and Ziva shook her head in frustration. It would be difficult to hear anyone trying to sneak up on them in this weather, even if she was reasonably certain they had finally shaken their pursuers. Just over two days had passed since the firefight in Moscow, fifty hours since Dana had been killed, and they had spent the entire time on the run. The Land Rover parked outside was their third vehicle since the flight from the tenement building. Ziva had personally acquired it from a parking lot in Minsk only hours earlier. To make it even more difficult to track, she had switched license plates with another SUV they happened upon on the outskirts of the Belarus city.

Sliding out of the sleeping bag she was using, Ziva crept to the nearest window and peered out, keeping as low as she could manage. Finding this farmhouse had been a stroke of luck for them. Off of the main highway, it was a rundown mess that probably had not been occupied for twenty years or more. The barn outside where the Land Rover was concealed was a miserable thing, with most of the roof long since rotted away, and the inside of this house proper was not much better. It was adequate shelter for the moment, though, and allowed them to stretch their legs or lay down after two days of almost nonstop driving.

"What is it?" Tony hissed from where he sat. His eyes were open and locked on her, forcing Ziva to give him a quick shake of her head.

"The wind," she replied softly. They were a dozen kilometers from the nearest highway and three times that from the outskirts of Minsk. The only people who would find them here would be any neighbors – of which there appeared to be none – or people actively tracking them on satellite. So far, this organization that Michael and Tony had been working to shut down did not appear to have those kinds of capabilities.

Against her better judgment, Ziva sank down below the window and found herself watching Tony. He had already closed his eyes again and was leaning his head against the wall, but she knew he was still awake. The changes eight months had wrought in him were immediately visible to her. His ready smile now seemed a bit forced, though admittedly, their current circumstances were so poor that even he would be hard-pressed to find humor in them. There was a distance in his eyes that had not been there before, a hardness that reminded her too much of her father or Ari or Gibbs. He had barely blinked when she ordered him out to steal a truck while they were in Moscow, and didn't even bat an eye when Michael executed the gunman who had killed – or at least participated in killing – Dana. Intelligence work had changed him.

And Ziva was not sure she liked it.

"Where do we go from here?" Tony asked softly, his voice carrying nonetheless. He turned his head and stared at the unmoving shadows that were Dana's corpse and Michael. "Dana deserves better than to be turned into a cheap rip-off of Bernie." Ziva frowned at the movie reference for a moment before finally placing it.

"We wait for contact," she said calmly. He nodded tightly and, to her utter surprise, dropped the subject. They sat in silence, watching one another while keeping an eye on Michael in case he woke up screaming again. Ziva bit her lower lip as she tried to find the words to begin a long overdue conversation, but each time she thought she knew what to say, her voice failed her or she glanced at Michael and held her tongue. Discussing their … relationship with Michael lost in grief seemed both inappropriate and flat out cruel.

She dozed several times during the night, jerking awake at the slightest sound and finding that Tony did the same. The urge to simply get up and _do _something grew exponentially as the hours crawled by. She knew that her father was already on the job; before leaving Minsk hours earlier, she had sent a coded email to one of his anonymous accounts – Hotmail, in this case – with the number of the prepaid cell phone she had just picked up from one of the sidewalk vendors. Once assets were in place – assets he _knew _he could trust – he would contact her.

Still, just sitting back and waiting was far from her strong suit. She was action-oriented and doing nothing did not sit well. It was one of the reasons she had loathed stakeouts so much while working with NCIS. Exhaling bitterly, she opened her eyes and found Tony watching her. The silence grew and grew and grew and …

"So," Tony said softly, "Officer Dahan, huh?" Ziva blew out a relieved breath. This she could do. Making fun of Tim's success was far easier than the difficult things they really needed to say to one another.

"McGee is quite convinced that I am going to kill him," she said with a slight smile.

"I'll help," DiNozzo remarked. "Mike still hasn't let me live Special Agent Tommy's exploits down." He glanced in the direction of the somnolent Rivkin and any good humor vanished. "I think we're the laughingstock of Mossad," he added in a voice a touch too serious. Ziva swallowed as she recognized the train of his thoughts. He was already blaming himself for Dana.

"Stop," she ordered. He looked back at her. "_I _asked Dana to join us, not you." Tony shrugged.

"Doesn't matter," he said. "The whole Moscow op was my idea. She wouldn't have even been there if I hadn't fucked up."

"Tony…"

The chirp of her cell phone interrupted whatever it was she was about to say – although Ziva honestly did not know _what _words were about to tumble out of her mouth – and she fumbled for the device. Tony quickly clambered to his feet so he could crouch near the window, almost as if he expected a horde of gunmen to come streaming out of the woods at a moment's notice. Given his recent experiences, Ziva realized he might have a point.

Flipping open the cheap phone, Ziva studied the text message long enough to memorize it before powering down the device and dropping it on the floor. She rose and nodded toward Michael.

"Get him up," she instructed. "We need to go."

"I am already awake," Rivkin growled. He winced as he began pushing himself to his feet. Tony took a step closer, wrapped his hand around one of Michael's wrists and pulled him upright. The two men exchanged a quick nod before turning to gather their gear. Once more, Tony knelt alongside the bag containing Dana's body and hefted it without complaint.

"Where are we going?" Michael asked dully as he followed Tony out the door of the farmhouse. Ziva was a half step behind them, fingers tightly gripping her pistol as she watched the treeline. Just in case.

"Away from here," she replied before bringing her booted foot down _hard_ on the cellphone. It cracked and she stomped on it twice more before following the two men to the barn that concealed the Land Rover. The back seat was down so Dana's body could lie horizontally; rigor mortis had long since set in, though her joints were finally becoming more flexible once more. Ziva blinked away errant tears at how Michael crawled in beside the body and stared at the ceiling, his eyes unfocused and shining.

With Tony in the passenger seat, Ziva started the SUV's engine and pulled out of the barn. Minutes later, they were once more on the highway, continuing their journey west. Ziva leaned over DiNozzo and pulled a map from the glove compartment. She pushed it into Tony's hands.

"Find out where we are," she told him. He grunted softly but obeyed, mumbling something under his breath that sounded less than happy.

"I think we're here," Tony said after studying the folded up map and consulting passing highway markers. He was pointing to a spot on the map and Ziva gave it a quick glance.

"Our extraction team will meet us here," she said, pointing to another spot on the paper. Tony frowned.

"There's nothing there," he remarked.

"There will be," she retorted.

She drove for nearly an hour, keeping a steady eye on the rear view mirror to track any potential pursuers. At her side, Tony sat silently, occasionally half turning to check on Michael but generally keeping quiet and watching the dark landscape flash by. He made no attempt to fiddle with the radio and did not even comment once about her driving which bothered her more than she expected it to.

The extraction point was an empty field that likely belonged to some wealthy landowner who did not even live in the area. Ziva turned off of the highway and spent several minutes driving over the untilled soil. When she parked, she made sure they had a clear view of the highway in case of pursuit. Tony glanced twice at her.

"Now," she said calmly, "we wait."

Nearly twenty minutes later, the distinctive sound of a rotor-driven aircraft could be heard on rapid approach. Dropping out of the night sky, the craft slowly descended into the field, twin rotors already tilted to VTOL mode. Tony blinked in slight surprise at the MV-22 Osprey and his eyes widened at the USMC insignia prominently stamped upon its fuselage. Armed Marines spilled out of the loading ramp the moment the Osprey had landed and quickly took up a defensive position around it. Ziva flashed the lights of the Land Rover twice before gunning the engine and shifting the truck back into gear. They slid to a stop several meters away from the Osprey and Ziva's breath caught when she recognized two of the men waiting for them.

"Glad you could make it, Officer David," Special Agent Baldwin of the CIA declared. He gestured quickly toward the waiting bird. "If you don't mind," he said, having to shout to make himself heard over the two propellers, "we'd like to get back into the air ASAP. This isn't exactly a legal violation of Belarus airspace." Ziva gave Tony a quick nod and he slid out of the Land Rover without comment. She followed suit, offering Amit Hadar a tight frown. His eyes were not on her, however, but were locked on the hunched-over figure that was Michael Rivkin. Two of the armed Marines slung their weapons and stepped forward to aid Tony as he pulled Dana's body free but he shook his head sharply. The two men seemed to understand at once and pulled back, allowing him to heft her dead weight alone.

"Come on, Mike," Tony said as he headed toward the loading ramp, Rivkin at his side, "let's take her home."

Less than a minute later, they were airborne once more.


	41. Things Fall Apart, 41: Tony

**A/N:** By this point, the story has gone _completely _AU (as if it hadn't already.) There will be no additional references to canon episodes set later in the "timeline" of season 4, although I reserve the right to steal events from those eps as appropriate.

All of my knowledge of Jewish traditions regarding the dead is based entirely upon internet research since I have no Jewish friends (pretty much all of my acquaintances are either agnostic or nondenominational Christian.) If I make errors, feel free to correct me and I'll adjust the as necessary since no offense is intended.

Finally, I know that I've exaggerated the maximum range of the MV-22 here, but this uses NCIS rules (which are synonymous with not really making sense, especially in season 6), so I hope you can just roll with it.

* * *

**Tony**

His head was pounding so hard that he couldn't hear himself think.

Leaning back in the jump seat, Tony stared at the ceiling of the Osprey – was it accurate to call the inside of a plane/helicopter thing a ceiling? He sure as hell didn't know – and tried not to focus on how quickly things had fallen apart. It was impossible not to think about Dana or how thoroughly screwed up Michael was now, and coupled with the information the CIA spook had just given him about Paula's team … he thought he was going to be sick.

The quick, aborted glances he received from the Marines were impossible to completely ignore, though Tony did his level best to do so. He could only imagine what they were thinking about him and, in another time, might have even agreed that it was the making of a fantastic story. A squad of Force Recon troopers rustled out of their beds in Stuttgart for a less than legal midnight insertion into Belarus airspace along with a bad ass Mossad officer who looked like he ate rocks for breakfast and a grim-looking CIA guy who was so damned ordinary-looking it seemed unnatural, just to pick up two men, a woman and a body in the middle of a damned field? It was straight out of a Tom Clancy book – or a Thom Gemcity one, he admitted sourly. And if Dana wasn't in a body bag, and Michael wasn't curled up beside her, and Paula wasn't in the Rota base hospital fighting for her life, and Nastya wasn't dead because he'd screwed up, Tony would have gleefully spun a sufficiently unlikely story to assuage the Marines' curiosity.

But right now, it was all he could do to keep from throwing up.

From Belarus, they raced southwest, hugging the ground and flying below radar as much as possible. Somewhere over Germany, they conducted an aerial refueling before continuing on toward Spain. By the time they reached Rota, Tony knew the Osprey was running on fumes and prayers. They hit the runway harder than was probably safe, but given how long the pilots had been behind the controls, DiNozzo figured he could forgive them, especially when one of the engines sputtered and died.

A small tow truck appeared out of nowhere, racing across the tarmac to begin hauling the Osprey toward a hangar. The Marines shifted anxiously in their jump seats, clearly not sure whether they should get off the plane – did he call it a plane? Tony made a mental note to ask one of the pilots the proper terminology before offering to buy them some beer for their part in pulling his ass out of the fire – before the spies.

"Sir?" one of the Marines whispered to him and Tony glanced in his direction. The man was wearing gunnery sergeant rank and had a grizzled, no-nonsense manner about him that DiNozzo instantly liked. "Permission to provide honor detail for your casualty?" Tony's eyes watered and he glanced away.

"Permission granted, Gunny," he said. "And thank you." The Marine nodded before giving sharp hand gestures to the rest of his squad. They reacted without a sound, springing to their feet and heading toward the back. Four of them – including the Gunny – approached the body bag where Officer Hadar had already tugged Michael to his feet. Ziva stood next to them and cast a quick glance in Tony's direction before taking Rivkin's hand in a gesture of comfort. The moment that the loading ramp hit the ground, most of the Marines were rushing out to form a double-column on either side of it. They snapped to attention at a soft command from someone Tony didn't see before bringing their rifles up to the 'present arms' posture. Their weapons were held out in front of their chest, the barrels pointing up with the trigger and hand grip facing away from the body. It was the formal equivalent of a salute for when a Marine was armed.

At the same time, the four man detail gripped the corners of the bodybag containing Dana. Exchanging a quick look with Officer Hadar, Tony slid in between two of the men and grabbed the middle of the bag. Hadar did the same on the other side and, marching in silent unison, they carried Dana from the Osprey, passing through the saluting men. Both of the pilots had climbed from the cockpit and were standing together, their arms brought up sharply in crisp salutes. Even the driver of the tow truck had joined them in honoring Dana's death.

Tony had never loved Marines more than he did in this moment.

He nearly missed a step at the sight of four people he was not prepared to see. Gibbs was slightly apart from the rest of his team – and what the hell was Cassie Yates doing here? – but stood ramrod straight, his right hand resting over his heart. McGee, who was much thinner than Tony recalled, stood directly at Gibbs' right, with Yates and Lee on the other side of them.

A Humvee ambulance was waiting, its driver standing at attention and saluting as they secured Dana's body on a wheeled gurney. Hadar gave Baldwin a quick nod before all but shoving Michael into the ambulance and climbing in with him. He glanced once in Tony's direction and gave him a single, solemn nod that DiNozzo returned. Once the ambulance pulled away, Tony turned to the gunnery sergeant and offered his hand.

"Thanks, Gunny," he said. "She deserved this."

"I'm sorry for your loss, sir," the Marine stated carefully. He let go of Tony's hand and stepped back to rejoin his team. DiNozzo glanced away from the man, his attention instinctively turning toward where Ziva stood. Gibbs had already joined her and, with a tenderness that Tony had never seen, reached up to touch the side of her badly bruised face. She caught his elbow and they exchanged soft comments that DiNozzo couldn't hear. Whatever was said, it made her smile.

To Tony, it was like a gut punch and yet another reminder why he left D.C.

He was three steps away out of the hangar when Agent Baldwin caught up with him, a cell phone in his hand. They hadn't really been introduced on the Osprey and Tony knew the man's name only because he'd heard Hadar use it.

"Special Agent DiNozzo," the CIA agent said by way of greeting. "I've heard a lot about you." Tony forced a smile on his face and offered his hand.

"It's Tony," he identified, "and only the good stuff is true." Baldwin chuckled.

"I'll keep that in mind," he said. "The CIA has been running an op out of Rota for the last several months," Baldwin began, "and since I'm the officer-in-charge, I'll share as much intel with you as I can."

"You'll share it with me," Gibbs declared as he strode forward to join them. "I'm running the investigation into the bombing." Tony's eyes narrowed.

"Since when?" he demanded harshly. "Rota is subordinate to NCIS Naples," he pointed out. "Patterson is lead."

"Director Shepard authorized me to take over," Gibbs said. He gave Tony a sidelong look as if to say 'shut up and speak only when spoken to.' It caused DiNozzo to instantly bristle. "What do you have, Baldwin?" Gibbs asked.

"No," Tony interrupted. He stepped closer to his old boss, violating the man's personal space. A part of him knew he was overreacting, that his grief and self-disgust was short-circuiting his common sense, but he couldn't stop the words from tumbling out of his mouth if he tried. "We're not done." Gibbs' eyes widened – DiNozzo couldn't help but to wonder if the older man was surprised at being challenged. "Unless you have written authorization to assume command of this investigation," he said harshly, "you have absolutely no authority here, Gibbs."

"The director said-"

"I don't give a damn about what she may have _said _to you," Tony snapped. "I want_ written _authorization or you can kindly butt the hell out of my investigation." Gibbs' eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth to respond. "Lee!" Tony called out.

"He's right, sir," Michelle said. "The director will need to file a-"

"You'll get it," Gibbs interrupted sharply, wheeling away from where Tony stood and whipping out his cellphone. DiNozzo grunted and tried to push down all of the inadequacy issues that reared their ugly heads whenever the older man spoke to him. Not for the first time, he wondered what it said about him that he'd exchanged one abusive father figure for another. Grimacing, he turned to face Baldwin, ignoring the concerned expression on Ziva's face or the stunned one on McGee's.

"You were saying?" he asked. Baldwin's eyes danced between Tony and Gibbs' back for a second before he shrugged.

"We're operating on the assumption that this is a reprisal strike aimed at Agent Cassidy for her part in the apprehension of a person of interest named Manuel Castillo," the CIA agent said. Ziva's expression didn't change, but Tony could see that the name meant something to her from the way she tensed. He made a mental note to interrogate her later. "I'll have my team get you copies of everything we can," Baldwin said.

"Good," Tony replied. "Coordinate with Agent Yates," he said, nodding toward where Cassie stood. She gave him a quick nod of greeting but offered no comment. Tony wasn't sure if he should be angry or amused that she was so obviously trying to avoid getting in the middle of the Gibbs-DiNozzo feud. He decided to go with the latter.

"For you," Gibbs growled as he stalked forward, holding out his phone. Tony glared at it for a second before snatching it from the older man.

"DiNozzo," he hissed into the receiver.

"I'm authorizing Gibbs to take over, Special Agent DiNozzo," Shepard's voice stated. "The appropriate documentation will be faxed to the NCIS office in Rota immediately."

"Why Gibbs?" Tony growled. "He doesn't know a damned thing about Rota!"

"Neither do you," the director replied calmly. "Patterson will back him up, but Gibbs is the agent in charge." She paused for a moment. "If you have any-"

Tony hung up on her, not really caring how she'd react, and turned his attention to the silver-haired special agent. Gibbs was already grilling Baldwin and DiNozzo felt another flash of fury at how the man he'd once worshiped treated him so callously. It didn't matter that he had been on special assignment and only here two or three weeks in the last eight months; Rota was _Tony's _duty assignment, not Gibbs'. He owed it to Paula to find the bastards responsible – she wouldn't have even been in Spain if he hadn't requested her! This was just another slap to the face, another reminder that Gibbs didn't think he was up to the damned challenge, and it was too fucking much to stomach coming so close to Dana's death. Tony tossed the cell phone to Lee and turned away, seething with fury.

He was barely six steps away when someone – McGee, as it turned out – caught his arm. Tony's reaction was instinctive and he had already twisted the younger agent's arm up behind his back in one of those rapid disabling moves Michael had insisted he learn before he recognized who it was that he facing.

"Sorry," he mumbled as he let Tim go. To DiNozzo's utter lack of surprise, Gibbs was there, watching with some unidentifiable expression on his face. Ziva was at the older man's side, her own eyes wide, though Tony didn't know why.

"Where do you think you're going?" Gibbs demanded. Tony gave him a cold look.

"Since this is _your_ investigation," he retorted sarcastically, "I'm going home to get some sleep."

"Not alone you're not," the silver-haired man stated. "We don't know that this wasn't aimed at your entire team."

"Protection detail?" Tony said incredulously. "Are you serious?"

"Deadly serious," Gibbs answered. He locked eyes with DiNozzo and, at his side, Ziva straightened, as if she were about to speak. Tony knew what she was about to say but the memory of Gibbs' hand on her face and the smile she gave him caused DiNozzo to speak first.

"Fine," he said. "McGee can do it." The various reactions could not be more dissimilar. Tim's eyes widened, Ziva's narrowed, and Gibbs grunted.

"I was thinking Ziva," the older agent replied. "She's better at protection."

"Too bad," Tony said. "McGee, grab your gear. I'm leaving in five."

He turned away before anyone could comment.


	42. Things Fall Apart, 42: Tim

**A/N:** By this point, the story has gone _completely _AU (as if it hadn't already.) There will be no additional references to canon episodes set later in the "timeline" of season 4, although I reserve the right to steal events from those eps as appropriate.

All of my knowledge of Jewish traditions regarding the dead is based entirely upon internet research since I have no Jewish friends (pretty much all of my acquaintances are either agnostic or nondenominational Christian.) If I make errors, feel free to correct me and I'll adjust the as necessary since no offense is intended.

* * *

**Tim**

Neither of them spoke during the short trip to Tony's apartment.

For his part, Tim was still trying to work the kinks out of his shoulder from DiNozzo's unexpected martial arts move while trying to keep from saying something really stupid. Tony had changed a lot from how McGee remembered him though he really didn't _look _that much different (apart from the freaky-looking beard and the black eyes, of course.) It was in his bearing, the way he moved, how his eyes darted, how he seemed like he was constantly on edge. Figuring out what bothered him about Tony was not hard.

DiNozzo reminded Tim of Ziva on her bad days.

It had been a shock to see the heavily armed combat Marine unit spring out of the Osprey and assume an honor guard position just beyond the loading ramp, but the sight of Tony carrying the black body bag to the ambulance had been an even greater one. The bruises on DiNozzo's face matched the ones that marred Ziva's features, but now, Tim had to wonder if the physical injuries were just the tip of the iceberg.

"I'm hungry," Tony announced abruptly as he was turning into a parking lot outside Bachelor's Officers' Quarters. "Are you hungry?"

"Uh," Tim started to say, but Tony was already wheeling the appropriated Humvee around with a squeal of the tires.

"We'll hit the NEX," DiNozzo decided. "I so badly need a beer right now that it's positively criminal." He smiled brightly, but there was a brittle edge to it, prompting Tim to suspect that it was completely faked. "I left my wallet back in Tel Aviv," Tony announced, a revelation that caused McGee to shoot him a wide-eyed look, "so you'll have to pay."

"How did I know _that _was coming?" Tim muttered good-naturedly. "I suppose you'll be expecting me to pay for the pizza too."

"Surely, Special Agent MacGregor can afford to cover his very good friend, Tommy DiNardo," Tony retorted. McGee winced and waited for the inevitable insult.

But it didn't come.

"Here we are," Tony said as he parked the Humvee in a spot reserved for emergency vehicles. He slid out of the driver's seat easily and gave the two MPs approaching a quick look.

"You can't park there," one of them announced. DiNozzo frowned and glanced in Tim's direction.

"NCIS business," McGee announced, flashing his badge as he spoke. The two Marines backed down instantly and, in the moment of confusion that resulted, Tony ducked into the NEX and vanished from sight. Cursing softly, Tim pursued him into the immense store.

He said nothing as he followed DiNozzo's seemingly haphazard shopping patterns. That Tony needed a new cell phone wasn't a big surprise, but Tim raised an eyebrow at the three cheap prepaid ones that DiNozzo purchased from a kiosk inside. They were several steps past the small stand when McGee realized that Tony had paid with cash from his own wallet instead of asking for a loan, which caused him to shake his head in confused amusement.

Once they were in the store proper, DiNozzo grabbed several changes of exercise clothes, new running shoes, various toiletries, and a six pack of some German beer with a name that Tim couldn't pronounce. Tony threw in several boxes of Pop-Tarts and a frozen pizza before heading for the check-out line. McGee reached for his wallet, expecting Tony to make good on his earlier threat to make him pay for the beer, but once again, DiNozzo paid with cash.

Even more frightening, though, was that Tony didn't even _try _to flirt with the reasonably attractive girl manning the register.

Tony spent several long minutes checking out the Humvee once they returned and it took Tim a long time to realize that he was checking for potential booby traps. The inside of McGee's mouth went dry and he desperately wanted to ask the older man what he had been doing for the last eight months. He held his tongue, though, and didn't comment when Tony drove too fast on their way back to the BOQ.

DiNozzo shoved the three bags into Tim's hands once they arrived outside his apartment and paused at the door. His hand went to the pistol under his arm as he cocked his head to one side, and McGee felt a rush of adrenaline thunder through his body. He was about to drop the bags and go for his own gun when Tony shook his head and simply opened the unlocked door.

The Mossad officer – Rivkin, Tim thought his name was – sat in a wheelchair next to a threadbare couch, staring at the ugly wall with unfocused and unseeing eyes. DiNozzo stepped into the apartment before jerking his head toward the rudimentary kitchen. McGee nodded his understanding of the unspoken order and kicked the door closed behind him as Tony plucked the beer out of his hand. He popped the lid off of one of the bottles and headed straight for the Mossad officer.

"Here," he said as he pushed the beer into Rivkin's hands. The man accepted it and nearly drained it with a single, extended pull. "Tim," DiNozzo called out, "put that pizza in the oven for me." McGee gave the two men a quick glance – both were sipping from their beers and looking at different walls, unfathomable expressions stamped on their faces – and moved to obey. Once he set the timer and slid the pizza in, he rejoined them in the living room only to find an opened beer waiting for him.

"To Dana Stavi," Tony said loudly. "She was a helluva woman." They clinked their bottles together and drank. Rivkin finished his first and hurled it at the far wall so hard it shattered. His face was a riot of emotions – pain, sadness, fury, despair – but his eyes … they were cold and so hard that it sent a chill up McGee's spine. For the first time, Tim noticed that Rivkin's clothes were ripped and torn, though it appeared to have been done intentionally and not during whatever it was that had claimed Dana's life. Tony offered the man another beer and Rivkin accepted without a word. McGee glanced around, suddenly unsure what to do or say. He'd often felt like the odd man out but this was even worse, so he focused on his surroundings as a distraction.

Unopened boxes, most of which were covered by a layer of dust, were stacked in the ugly-looking living room of the tiny apartment. The complete absence of a television or movies was jarring, but the smell in the air – mold and mildew, along with a strong odor of unwashed socks – made him wrinkle his nose. If McGee didn't already know that DiNozzo had been on a secret mission, the state of the apartment would have certainly clued him in.

"I spoke with her mother," Rivkin announced bitterly. "She does not blame me."

"Who's sitting with Dana now?" Tony asked softly. The comment made Tim frown slightly in confusion.

"Amit volunteered," the Mossad officer replied. _"_He ordered me away from her for a time." The second bottle joined the first against the wall and Rivkin grabbed a third one. "It should have been me, Tony," he said after a few seconds. "Not Dana. Not her." DiNozzo was silent and, at his nod, McGee discreetly backed out of the living room to seek refuge in the kitchen. He could hear the two men talking softly, though he didn't know what they were saying and didn't even try to eavesdrop. After checking that the pizza was still cooking, he let himself out of the apartment and waited alongside the Humvee, periodically checking his watch. It wouldn't do to let the pizza burn.

When his work phone rang, he answered it with mild trepidation.

"How is he?" Ziva asked without a word of greeting.

"Okay, I think," Tim replied. He blew out a breath. "Rivkin is here," he said, "and they're talking." At her silence, McGee rushed to explain. "I'm outside right now. Figured I'd give them some room."

"Michael loved her," Ziva said unnecessarily. "He is taking this … bad."

"Yeah," Tim agreed.

"Gibbs wants you both at the office here by zero nine tomorrow."

"Great," McGee said sourly. He couldn't _wait _to tell Tony that, not after having seen how the two men were at each other's throats with just a few words. "What about Rivkin?" he asked.

"Officer Hadar will likely send a car for him," Ziva said. She was silent for a moment. "Tim," she said, "please watch over him." McGee nodded, though she couldn't see him. He didn't need to ask which man she was talking about.

"You have my word," he swore. "I've got to go. Pizza needs to come out of the oven."

When he re-entered the apartment, there was no sign of Rivkin and Tony was crouching by the broken bottles with a sweeper and dustpan. He gave Tim a quick look before turning back to his task. Minutes passed in silence as they both worked – Tony with the smashed bottles, Tim with the _really _hot pizza pan – and it was no surprise that DiNozzo spoke first once they settled down to eat.

"Michael's in the spare bedroom," he said before blowing on the slice of pizza he'd grabbed, "so you get the crappy couch."

"Okay," Tim said. He doubted he was going to get any sleep tonight anyway. "Is he okay?"

"Nope." Tony didn't bother expanding on the comment as he wolfed down his food. "Expect Hadar to send somebody for him around oh-dark-thirty," he added. "Mike will probably be awake, but between the beer and the painkillers he's on, he might still be unconscious."

"Right."

"I'd like to be at the office before seven if that's okay with you," DiNozzo said. "And I want to swing by the hospital to see how Paula's doing."

"That's fine." Tim swallowed and watched Tony eat. DiNozzo frowned.

"Is there something on my face?" he asked. McGee shook his head.

"No," Tim said. "You just seem … different."

"That's calling the kettle black, Probie. Did you accidentally run over an old Gypsy woman and get cursed?" McGee smirked.

"_Thinner_," he identified. "The book was better than the movie."

"I'll take your word for it, McGemcity," Tony said. He eyed Tim speculatively. "Speaking of," he said, "how's the writing coming along?"

"Not well," Tim admitted. He licked his lips and glanced down. "Agent Tommy left D.C.," he said, "and everyone really misses him." McGee hesitated before pressing on. "Especially Officer Lisa." Tony's face went cold.

"Somehow, I doubt that," he said harshly as he tossed the rest of his pizza back onto the plate. "Bathroom's through there," he remarked with a vague gesture toward a door, "but the handle sticks on the toilet so you'll have to jiggle it. Good night." Without another word, he vanished through another door, pushing it shut. Tim stared at it for a moment, wondering what he'd said that caused such a reaction. He shook his head and silently chastised himself for daring to get involved in the first place.

The knock on the door for Officer Rivkin came well before the sun peeked over the horizon, exactly as Tony had promised, but McGee was already up and staring out the window. The Mossad officer was alert and mostly ambulatory, though he did have some minor trouble navigating his wheelchair through the mess that was the DiNozzo living room. Tony was in the shower minutes later, and he swept into the kitchen with an expression so bleak it was almost murderous. The yellowish-brown bruising that was on his face had mostly faded though it was more visible now that DiNozzo had shaved the light beard off his face. Tim said nothing as Tony tore through several slices of the cold pizza, and followed him out of the building cautiously.

They pulled into the hospital parking lot several minutes later, having made a quick detour to the base Burger King for a better breakfast. Armed guards were stationed just outside the emergency room and, from the moment they exited the Humvee, Tim could sense that something bad was coming. Gibbs was already there, angrily chewing out some Hispanic-looking guy in a suit, and it didn't surprise McGee that Ziva was lurking nearby either, though she was discussing something in Hebrew with the scary-looking Mossad officer Tony had previously identified as Hadar. Both conversations trailed off at their approach and Tim could almost feel the tension radiating off of DiNozzo.

"She's dead, isn't she?" Tony asked more calmly than McGee thought was possible. Gibbs' face seemed to crumple just a little bit, suddenly reminding Tim of how he looked right after Kate died. He nodded. Tony didn't say a word.

Instead, he turned around and walked away.


	43. Things Fall Apart, 43: Ziva

**A/N: **This chapter begins at the end of chapter 41 and takes places at the same time as chapter 42. And yeah, Tony's being a little immature but he's hurting (emotionally) and _really _pissed off at Gibbs, so I hope you'll give him the benefit of the doubt.

All of my knowledge of Jewish traditions regarding the dead is based entirely upon internet research since I have no Jewish friends (pretty much all of my acquaintances are either agnostic or nondenominational Christian.) If I make errors, feel free to correct me and I'll adjust the as necessary since no offense is intended.

* * *

**Ziva**

She watched Tony and McGee drive away from the airplane hangar, discomfort swirling in her stomach.

Standing at her side, Gibbs said nothing, though Ziva could see a dozen different emotions washing across his face. His entire approach to this situation baffled her – he _had _to know that Tony, with all of his unfounded adequacy issues, would react the way he did the moment he discovered his old boss was effectively seizing control of an investigation that was rightfully DiNozzo's and yet, Gibbs bludgeoned forward like usual, either uncaring or ignorant of any hurt feelings. No, she amended to herself as she caught a glint of remorse in the silver-haired agent's face, he definitely wasn't ignorant.

"Why did you do that?" Ziva asked as his cellphone began buzzing once more. It had been doing so nonstop since Tony tossed it to Agent Lee, but so far, Gibbs had not bothered answering it.

"I know him," Gibbs replied calmly. "And right now, DiNozzo is blaming himself for everything that has just happened." He shook his head in what almost looked like familial disgust. "Doesn't matter that it _isn't _his fault. He'll insist on beating himself up over it."

"So you gave him someone to hate," Ziva realized. "He will never forgive you." Gibbs shrugged.

"If that's what it takes for him to get his head on straight," he remarked before giving her another look. "I meant what I said earlier, Ziva. You look like crap." She smiled slightly at the memory of his very paternal reception. She had often wished Eli would have greeted her like that after a harrowing mission instead of the calm, dispassionate 'welcome back, Officer David' that her father always gave.

"It has been a long couple of days," she pointed out. He nodded.

"Well," Gibbs said, "you're no good to me like this. Lee!"

"Sir!" The diminutive agent sprang forward, her address causing Gibbs to actually flinch. For a moment, Ziva thought he was going to yell at the girl, to remind her that he was not a 'sir,' but he simply ground his teeth together and ignored the lapse.

"Take Ziva to the visitor's quarters. She needs food, a shower and a bed."

"Yes, sir," Lee replied, once more causing Gibbs to wince. As he turned away, Ziva caught a flicker of mischief in Michelle's eyes and suddenly realized the girl was _intentionally _screwing up her mode of address. She shook her head and wondered how much more she had missed in the last month or so.

"You!" Gibbs called out. "CIA guy! We're still waiting for the copies of your data!" His phone buzzed again and he sighed as he gave it a look. "Damn it, DiNozzo," he muttered so softly that Ziva doubted she was supposed to have overheard him. He flipped the phone open and raised it to his ear. "Yes, Director, what do you need?"

Lee drove them to quarters, allowing Ziva the opportunity to call Hadar for a situation report on Michael. She was not surprised that the older Mossad officer had all but thrown Rivkin out of the morgue, but the revelation that Amit had volunteered to sit with Dana while Michael got some sleep surprised her. Neither of the men had seemed particularly devout, though now she wondered if they had simply concealed it from her since _she _had never been very religious herself, not after God took Tali away from her.

When she emerged from her lukewarm but still satisfying shower, Ziva found that Agent Lee had already left. A yellow sticky note was taped to the front door where she could not miss it, and Ziva gave the message a quick glance. _G wants you, D and McG the office 9am, _it read. Shaking her head, Ziva balled the note up and tossed it in the garbage. To her delight, there was a Styrofoam container with her name written on it in McGee's distinctive handwriting inside the refrigerator containing a reasonable facsimile of a Philly cheese steak, likely purchased from the deli at the NEX; after a minute in the microwave, it was more than edible and she made a mental note to not mention _Deep Six _to Tim for at least a day in gratitude.

As she ate, her worry over Michael and Tony grew. From the easy camaraderie between the two that she had seen in the last several days, she suspected that Rivkin would seek DiNozzo out after having been kicked out of the morgue by Hadar and, knowing the two of them, copious amounts of alcohol would likely be consumed. What concerned her most was the admittedly slight possibility that Michael might blame Tony for Dana's death, and she found herself dialing Tim's number before she knew it. Their conversation was short but left her sufficiently relieved to focus on her own situation, and in that moment, a bone-deep weariness set in. Yawning so widely that her jaw cracked, she crawled into the lumpy bed and let herself pass out.

Michelle was snoring lightly on the couch when Ziva finally crawled back into the land of the living. The sun was still below the horizon – it was barely four in the morning local time – but Ziva showered, dressed, and let herself out of the cramped apartment with as little noise as possible. She should not have been surprised that Gibbs was already up and waiting, but she was.

"Here," he said as he pushed a steaming cup of coffee into her hands. She inhaled deeply – it smelled _marvelous_ – before sipping from it. Grimacing, she gave him a sour look.

"Is this supposed to be coffee?" she demanded. "It tastes like motor oil." Gibbs smirked which caused Ziva to glower. "Hospital?" she asked. Gibbs nodded.

On the way, he briefed her on what they had uncovered with the case yesterday while she slept. Baldwin's information had been quite helpful and Ziva could not help but to notice Gibbs' visible discomfort at offering praise for a member of the CIA. Three men had already been arrested, and two more were killed by Spanish authorities fleeing the scene. Guilt churned within Ziva's stomach as Gibbs outlined what they knew so far and she wondered if Tony would hate her for her part in Paula's injuries. Everything was pointing toward Baldwin's theory about this being a reprisal raid being accurate, even though it was not Cassidy who had apprehended Castillo, but Ziva herself.

They arrived at the hospital at nearly the same time as Michael, and Rivkin gave her a quick nod as Officer Livni pushed his wheelchair toward the elevator that would take them to the morgue. And Dana. Ziva's breath caught at Michael's unshaven, unkempt appearance and tears sprang to her eyes once she realized that he was treating Dana's death exactly as if she had been his spouse. Gibbs thankfully said nothing when Ziva ducked into a restroom to recover.

Hadar was waiting outside when she exited, a decidedly dark expression on his face. His hands trembled, a sure sign that he had taken his duties as _shomerim_ seriously and had not left Dana's side even once, no matter the serious nicotine withdrawal he was suffering through.

_"Your previous mission to Cordoba has been suspended indefinitely," _he informed her in Hebrew. She gave Gibbs a quick nod – he was deep in conversation with Baldwin's young partner – and followed Hadar outside. _"When Gibbs' team returns to D.C.," Hadar said, "you are to accompany them."_

_"The leak at the Israeli Embassy," _Ziva guessed, feeling a flicker a dismay; she had planned to attend Dana's funeral if given the opportunity. He nodded as he lit a cigarette and drew deeply on it. _"You suspect Bashan?"_

_"No," _Hadar replied. _"Someone who works for him. Someone who has access to the clean lines we issue our field agents."_

_"That is a long list," _Ziva remarked. She considered for a moment before nodding. _"Has the director issued a sanction order for this traitor?"_

_"We want them alive," he said. "They might be part of a larger cell." _His expression darkened. _"And I think Rivkin is owed this traitor's death." _Ziva shivered at the statement. She did not want to imagine what Michael would do to the person responsible for Dana's death.

_"What is going to happen to him?" _she asked as Hadar lit a second cigarette with the smoldering remains of the first. He field stripped what was left of the previous one as he responded in what appeared to be an automatic, unthinking gesture.

_"Until he is emotionally and physically sound once more," _he said, _"Officer Rivkin will be on light duties. We are not in the habit of throwing away valuable assets." _Hadar sighed suddenly. _"I do not know if he will ever return to the field though," _he admitted. _"Officer Stavi's death has hit him hard." _Ziva frowned, but offered no argument. At her silence, Hadar glanced once in her direction before finishing his second cigarette. _"Any suggestions?" _he asked before turning away to retrace his steps into the hospital.

_"He would make an effective case officer," _she remarked as she followed him inside. A grim-looking doctor was speaking softly with Gibbs and, from both men's expressions, the news was not good. _"Give him a rookie like Officer Livni to teach," _she added, watching as Gibbs rounded on the junior CIA agent and began growling, an accusing tone to his voice and features. Ziva was slightly too far away from them to understand what was being said, but she knew that the silver-haired special agent was furious over losing another member of his family and chose to vent his rage on someone who shouldered at least a little of the blame.

She could not help but to wonder why he was not enraged at her.

Hadar said something to her, but Ziva's attention was drawn away from him as a haggard-looking but clean-shaven Tony approached, Tim at his heels. DiNozzo's steps faltered when Gibbs half-turned toward him.

"She's dead, isn't she?" Tony asked more calmly than Ziva thought was possible. Gibbs' face seemed to crumple just a little bit, suddenly reminding her of how her father looked right after Tali was murdered. He nodded. Tony didn't say a word and, instead, turned around and walked away.

Tim started to pursue, but Ziva took several rapid steps closer and grabbed his arm to stop him. They exchanged a quick look and McGee nodded at the request in her eyes before heading toward Gibbs. At Gibbs' nod – and Hadar's! – she darted toward the elevator where she could join Tony. He said nothing as he pressed the button for the basement and Ziva watched him for a long moment in silence.

"I am sorry for your loss," she said simply.

"Paula was a good woman," he stated flatly, conversationally, as if the dead woman he spoke of was not a friend or ex-lover, "a better agent, and an all-around fantastic person." He sighed. "Just like Dana," Tony added. He was out of the elevator the moment the door slid open and Ziva slid into step behind him.

A pair of armed men stood in front of the door to the morgue. The Marine gave them a once over before glancing at his partner – Ari Livni, Ziva realized with some mild surprise – who nodded. Livni pulled the door open for them without a word and Tony murmured a soft word of thanks as he passed by them to enter the morgue.

Dana's corpse was still in the body bag and Michael had parked his wheelchair next to the autopsy table where he read from the Book of Psalms. He glanced up once, gave the two of them tight nods, and returned to his reading without further remark. To Ziva's surprise, Tony did not try to fill the silence with words of condolence or the gallows humor she had grown to expect from him. Instead, he simply stood there, listening to the soft Hebrew spilling out of Michael's mouth.

_I do not know this man, _Ziva realized with growing sadness. _This is not the same Tony DiNozzo that I once knew._

That realization hurt. A lot.

An hour passed in this way and, in that time, Ziva was unable to tear her eyes away from the flickering candle that had been placed near Dana's head. When her phone vibrated – it was Gibbs – she caught Tony watching her. He nodded before she could even speak and headed for the door without a word.

_"I will be back later," _she whispered to Michael, _"to sit with you."_ He smiled.

_"She would have liked that," _he replied.

Gibbs was waiting in the elevator for them and, from the scowl on his face, was once more in full 'bastard' mode. To her consternation, Tony was wearing an almost identical expression and the glare he shot toward his old boss could have ignited flammable materials. Naturally, Gibbs ignored it.

"The director wants a debrief," he said without preamble. "I expect you to be there."

"Why?" DiNozzo asked sharply. "This is _your _investigation."

"And it's _your _duty station," Gibbs retorted, equally hard. "You owe Cassidy that much."

"Don't you fucking dare," Tony hissed. He was through the elevator doors before they even fully opened, his hands balled tightly in fists.

"DiNozzo," Gibbs started, but Tony gestured with his right hand, extending his middle finger while curling the rest of his fingers into a fist, before disappearing around a corner.

"Are you _trying _to get punched in the face?" Ziva asked, disgust dripping off her words. "He is in a great deal of pain right now and you are _not _helping with this … this rough love routine."

"It's the only way I know," Gibbs said with an expression of guilt flashing across his face. He stepped out of the elevator, taking a different turn than Tony did, and, with a muttered curse directed at stupid men with the emotional maturity of rocks, Ziva fell into step behind him. They found McGee waiting outside.

"You just missed Tony, Boss," he said sheepishly. "He stole my rental and left." Gibbs snorted – it sounded suspiciously like a laugh – before gesturing toward where his vehicle was parked. McGee gave Ziva a sidelong look and she shrugged.

They arrived at the NCIS office in mere minutes and filed into the secured MTAC. Within seconds, Director Shepard appeared on the screen.

"Where's Special Agent DiNozzo?" she asked instantly. Ziva shot an annoyed look at Gibbs who shrugged.

"Not here," he replied flatly.

"That may be for the best," Shepard said heavily. She closed her eyes and sighed. "I just got off the phone with the SecNav," she revealed, "and _he _just got off the phone with the president who is demanding answers. I hope you have them, Jethro."

"Working on it," Gibbs said. "My opinion doesn't change from what it was yesterday." Jenny shook her head.

"I was afraid of that," she said. "The SecNav has ordered me to begin an IA investigation into this to see if DiNozzo was involved."

"What?" Gibbs' voice reflected his incredulity. "He did nothing wrong! You _know _where he was! And why!"

"Which is why it will be a _short _investigation," the director said. "But he'll still need to be here in D.C. for a while."

"Riding a desk," Gibbs nearly snarled. "I'll let him know," he said.

Ziva coughed.

"I do not think that is a good idea," she said once she had everyone's attention. "The two of you are not on the best of terms at the moment."

"Agreed," Shepard said. "Special Agent McGee," she called out. "Go find Tony. Tell him I need to speak with him ASAP."

"On it," Tim said, vanishing through the door as if he was running from a fire.

"Why McGee?" Gibbs demanded. "Ziva could have told him."

"Right now," Shepard remarked, "McGee is the only one of you three that I think DiNozzo will actually listen to." Ziva sighed.

The director was right.


	44. Things Fall Apart, 44: Tim

**A/N: **This chapter picks up a couple of hours after the previous one. And yeah, Tony's being a little immature but he's hurting (emotionally) and _really _pissed off at Gibbs, so I hope you'll give him the benefit of the doubt.

All of my knowledge of Jewish traditions regarding the dead is based entirely upon internet research since I have no Jewish friends (pretty much all of my acquaintances are either agnostic or nondenominational Christian.) If I make errors, feel free to correct me and I'll adjust the as necessary since no offense is intended.

* * *

**Tim**

It took nearly all day, but Tim finally tracked down DiNozzo.

Tony had been criss-crossing the naval base all day, evidently conducting his own investigation independent of the one that Gibbs was leading, and Tim wasn't able to catch up to him until the sun began to sink below the horizon. DiNozzo had parked the rental car he'd 'borrowed' in the spot outside his apartment where they'd left the Humvee the night before. Tim had halfway expected Tony to be sprawled out on the crappy couch, but there was no one in the living room. The keys to the parked rental car had been tossed onto the poor quality coffee table, so Tim quietly walked down the short hall to the main bedroom and pushed the door open. It was dark, with thick curtains hanging from the windows and preventing any illumination entering from outside light sources. McGee fumbled for the light switch, biting back a curse when he accidentally kicked something large and heavy. When the overhead light finally snapped on, it caught him by surprise and he spent a moment blinking away the spots dancing in his eyes.

"Dammit, McGee," Tony growled. DiNozzo was seated at a cramped-looking desk next to the bed, a full bottle of something alcoholic on the flat surface next to an empty glass. He hadn't bothered changing out of the clothes he had donned this morning and Tim's eyes automatically darted to the yellowish bruises still on his face. "Warn me next time," DiNozzo ordered as he held his right hand over his face, shielding his eyes from the glare.

"Sorry," Tim replied, though he didn't really mean it. He took several steps closer to the desk, noting once more the changes that had taken place in the months since he had last seen Tony.

If he had to pick the biggest difference, McGee would have to say that the man who had tormented him so relentlessly in D.C. simply _looked _older. There was a hardness to him now, a bitterness in his eyes that reminded Tim of Gibbs, and the scowl that darkened DiNozzo's face seemed to have become his default expression. Gone were the ready smiles and casual grins, replaced by a harsh professionalism that seemed entirely out of place on the older man.

"Something I can do for you, Agent McGee?" Tony asked, his glare deepening, and Tim realized he had been staring. He flushed slightly, but sat down on the bed next to the desk anyway.

"I was wondering how you were doing," he said, and Tony snorted.

"How the hell do you _think _I'm doing?" DiNozzo snapped. "My entire fucking team just got wiped out on _my _watch while I was off pretending to be a spy and the jackass currently running the investigation apparently doesn't think I can even tie my damned shoes without his help." He glowered at the bottle as if the alcohol was responsible.

"Is the Jack going to help?" Tim asked softly.

"Probably not," Tony said, "which is why I'm still trying to decide whether I'm going to open the damned thing or not." He closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair. "Did you know," he asked, "that Paula was supposed to be the maid of honor in a wedding next month?" DiNozzo blew out a frustrated breath. "And now, I've got to call her best friend and tell her that she's dead."

"I'm sorry," McGee whispered, this time meaning it. He swallowed and looked down, all the while trying to find right thing to say. _For someone so talented with words, _he chastised himself bitterly, _you're not doing a good job right now!_

Glancing back up, he found Tony had opened his eyes and was now staring at the ceiling, though it didn't look like he was actually _seeing _anything. They sat in silence for a long moment, and Tim's attention drifted to a small bulletin board on the wall behind DiNozzo's desk. It was covered in pictures – there was one of Kate, smiling at the photographer, and another of Paula sticking her tongue out, and a candid shot of Dana Stavi at what looked like a nightclub of some sort. Jim Nelson and Rick Hall were there as well, right next to a rectangle of plastic that looked to be a Russian driver's license for some girl, along with dozens of other photos, both male and female. It took McGee a second to realize all of the photos were of people now dead.

Well, not _all _of them, but certainly most.

"It's my wall of shame," Tony said in response to Tim's look. The anger seemed to have vanished, replaced by despair, disgust, and a crippling exhaustion. "I keep it to remind myself of all the people I've lost."

"Then why is Ziva's picture up there?" McGee wondered. "She's not dead."

"Lost doesn't mean dead, Probie," DiNozzo retorted sharply. He glanced away. "And I lost her a long time ago," he added softly. Tim swallowed at the bitterness in Tony's voice. "Did the director send you?" DiNozzo asked suddenly. He was staring at the ceiling again.

"Yeah," Tim replied. "She wants you to call her," he said.

"Guess that's it, then," Tony said. He reached for a folder on top of the desk and extracted something that looked like a letter. Without a word, he scribbled his signature on the bottom and started folding the paper up.

"Is that what I think it is?" McGee asked.

"Probably," DiNozzo replied. "I'm not going to offer it unless she asks for it," he said calmly, "because _that _would be running away." Once more, anger leaked into his voice and Tim recognized the oblique reference to Gibbs' Mexican holiday. "But let's be realistic," Tony continued. "An entire NCIS team just got wiped out on my watch. Doesn't matter that I haven't been here for more than two weeks in the last year or that I've been conducting a covert operation on the director's authority. On paper, it's _my _team." He shook his head. "And that's not even factoring in Moscow," he said. "I'd be surprised if Tel Aviv wasn't already demanding my head."

"We are not," an accented voice announced suddenly, causing Tim to jump. DiNozzo's reaction was more telling; his right hand darted toward the Sig holstered under his arm but froze there as Amit Hadar stepped into the bedroom. "If Director Shepard is foolish enough to ask for your resignation," the hard-faced man said calmly, "then there is a place for you with Mossad." Tony snorted.

"I'm not Israeli," he said with a smirk, "and I'm certainly not Jewish." Hadar smiled.

"Certain deficiencies of your character can be overlooked," he said wryly. Tony laughed out loud, though it had a sharp, bitter edge to it. "I am looking for Officer David," Hadar revealed a moment later and any hint of humor fled from DiNozzo's face. "I assumed I would find her here."

"You assumed wrong," Tony said tightly. "Check with Gibbs. She's _probably _with him." Tim frowned at the statement, but Hadar shook his head.

"Special Agent Gibbs is with Agents Yates and Lee interviewing witnesses," the Mossad officer said.

"Then check the morgue," DiNozzo suggested. "She told Michael that she wanted to sit with him."

"I shall." Hadar pinned Tony with an appraising look. "And I meant what I said. If NCIS terminates you, there is a place for you with Mossad."

"I'll keep that in mind," Tony replied with a smirk that didn't entirely touch his eyes. "What do you think, McGee? Can Special Agent Tommy hack it in Mossad?"

"Oh," Hadar said abruptly. "You're _that _McGee." He flashed a smile that robbed him of twenty years. "My wife adored _Deep Six._"

"Uh … thanks?"

"If I could trouble you later," Hadar added almost sheepishly, "I would very much like to present a signed copy of it to her. Yesterday was our fifteenth anniversary and she was … displeased that I had to work."

"I'd be happy to sign a copy for you," Tim said, shifting self-consciously at the snicker that Tony gave him. It was more than a little creepy to see such a scary-looking man like Officer Hadar act so … normal about a book, and McGee was actually glad when the Mossad officer departed from the apartment moments later. Tim glanced back in Tony's direction, noting that the older man hadn't budged from his desk. Once again, DiNozzo's attention was locked on the small bulletin board though Tim still wasn't sure if he was actually seeing anything or not.

When his second phone rang, Tim accidentally pulled the wrong one out to answer it before returning it to his pocket and grabbing the correct one. He glanced at the name flashing on the iPhone's screen before remembering he wasn't alone. Looking up, he wasn't surprised to see Tony watching him.

"Two phones, McGee?" DiNozzo asked with a frown. Tim opened his mouth to offer his usual refrain about the second one being needed for his publisher, a lie he didn't think _anyone _actually believed anymore even if they didn't call him on it, but the other man continued. "Please tell me," Tony said hesitantly, "that the director didn't put you on the Benoit op."

Tim's mind froze up. He swallowed, suddenly unable to meet DiNozzo's gaze, and instead silently returned the phone to his pocket. What was he supposed to say to that? And for that matter, how did Tony know about it?

"Dammit," DiNozzo muttered. "What the hell was she thinking? You're not trained for this sort of thing."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Tim growled sullenly. Anger warred with hurt at the slight, even if he shared the sentiment. Any time he looked at Jeanne or Abby or even Gibbs these days, he felt like he was drowning in a sea of lies and there was no life preserver in sight.

"I didn't mean it like that, Probie," Tony said. "No offense," he continued, "but you're a computer guy. This sort of op takes training you just haven't received."

"How do you even know about it?" McGee asked sourly. The truth, it turned out, _really _hurt. DiNozzo shrugged.

"The director tried to get me to do it," he said, "but at the time I was … involved with someone and not very interested in breaking it off." _Ziva_, Tim's brain supplied, especially when Tony's expression turned both angry and sad at the same time. For the hundredth time, he wondered what exactly had happened between the two. Before Gibbs came back they had seemed so happy. Abby had a good idea what, if some of her offhand remarks were any indication, but she'd been surprisingly tight-lipped about voicing her theories. "I turned her down," DiNozzo added, "but I didn't think she would offer it to you." He frowned. "How are you holding up with it, anyway?"

"It's hard," Tim admitted. The words started gushing out of him before he could stop them, and he realized just how badly he had wanted to talk to someone about this secret assignment, someone who knew the particulars or at least understood what he was going through. "I thought it would be fun, like in the movies, but lying to people you care about all the time, keeping secrets from your friends and family … I feel like a fraud." Tony's steady gaze encouraged him to continue. "But I really like Jeanne. She's funny, and smart, and it's great knowing someone is there to talk to, to listen to my problems, to come home to-"

"I'm sure the sex on a regular basis doesn't hurt either," DiNozzo interjected, a smile in his voice, and for the briefest of seconds, it was like he was back to normal. The moment faded almost before it was there. "Be careful, Tim," he cautioned. "You don't want to fall in love with this woman."

"I know," McGee murmured in response, even though he wondered if it was already too late. It must have shown on his face, because Tony frowned.

"Are you?" DiNozzo asked. "In love with her?"

"I think so," Tim replied. "Maybe. I dunno."

"Well, _that's _helpful," Tony muttered. "Is she in love with you?"

"She _says _she is," McGee said. He forced a smile on his face. "But sometimes, I think she's just using me for sex."

"Too much information, Probie," came the instant and almost amused response. "For what it's worth, I understand." DiNozzo's eyes flickered away – to the bulletin board he was half-facing and the photo of Ziva. "Unrequited love is only noble in Shakespeare," Tony murmured. He blinked the moment away. "You need to talk to the director about this," he said. "Write it down – you're good at that – but she _needs to know._" DiNozzo frowned. "You're a good man, Tim," he said a moment later, "but if you get in too deep, you're just going to hurt two people instead of one." McGee nodded but, before he could reply, his work phone began buzzing.

"It's Gibbs," he identified off the screen. "Probably wondering where you are." At the sour expression flitting across Tony's face, Tim rushed to continue. "The director _did _tell me to find you."

"Wouldn't want you to get into any trouble, now would we?" DiNozzo asked as he forced himself to his feet. He stared at the folded letter of resignation for a heartbeat before sliding it into his pocket and pointing toward the door. "Lead on, McLoverboy," he said with a hint of his old smile.

They arrived at the office nearly twenty minutes later, having stopped once at Tony's insistence to pick up some candles at the NEX for reasons that he refused to explain. They entered the rudimentary MTAC facility to discover Gibbs already speaking with director. The silver-haired senior agent narrowed his eyes at Tony's approach.

"Where have you been?" he demanded.

"Doing my job," DiNozzo retorted coldly. "Have you found the security breach yet? The one that let the bombers onto the base?"

"We're still working on it," Gibbs said flatly. From the tightness of his boss' expression, McGee recognized that no, they hadn't yet tracked down the leak yet and, from personal experience, he knew that Cassie and Michelle had been suffering the brunt of Gibbs' temper as a result. Tony reached into his pocket and extracted a tiny notepad. He tore a sheet off and offered it.

"Check these two," he said. "They're a _pareja _in the _Guardia Civil_ with some questionable ties off-base. The last time I was here, Paula told me she had a couple of run-ins with them." Gibbs accepted the piece of paper, glanced at it, and gave Tony a solemn almost thankful nod.

"Special Agent DiNozzo," the director said before Gibbs could speak. "Can I assume you've been debriefed on the situation?"

"No, ma'am," Tony replied. "I've been doing legwork. Haven't had time to coordinate with the _agent-in-charge," _he said, all but spitting out the last part. Shepard's lips tightened and Tim braced himself for the inevitable explosion that, surprisingly, did not come.

"The SecNav wants an IA investigation into this," she began instead. "You aren't being suspended," she continued, "but field work is out of the question while the investigation is ongoing." The director paused, clearly waiting for Tony's response, but he said nothing. "You'll fly back with Gibbs' team tomorrow morning."

"Yes, ma'am." DiNozzo's voice was soft, tight, and so hard it could cut diamonds. "Will there be anything else, ma'am?" Shepard shook her head slightly and Tony spun away from the screen, pausing only briefly to shoot an angry, wounded look in Gibbs' direction that was so intense the silver-haired man glanced away. Neither of them said anything as Tony left the secured room.

"McGee," Gibbs murmured, his voice pitched low. "Keep an eye on him," he ordered.

"You have my word," Tim promised, repeating his vow to Ziva the night before. For reasons he couldn't quite explain, it felt like she and Gibbs had entrusted something sacred to him when they asked him to watch over Tony and, more than any medal or commendation or words of praise, their trust made McGee feel like he could do anything.

As he stepped through the door, he heard Gibbs' soft voice once more, though it wasn't aimed at him.

"How do I fix this, Jen?"


	45. Things Fall Apart, 45: Tony

**A/N: **This chapter picks up a couple of hours after the previous one.

All of my knowledge of Jewish traditions regarding the dead is based entirely upon internet research since I have no Jewish friends (pretty much all of my acquaintances are either agnostic or nondenominational Christian.) If I make errors, feel free to correct me and I'll adjust the as necessary since no offense is intended.

* * *

**Tony**

He felt numb.

McGee a silent shadow at his back, Tony walked slowly through the hospital doors and angled directly toward the elevators. He hadn't said a single thing of any real importance since Tim joined him outside the NCIS office nearly three hours ago, and had been oddly grateful for the steady stream of gossip his old probie was offering about the D.C. office. By unspoken agreement, Gibbs and Ziva were off limits, but that left everyone else fair game. Tony nodded at the appropriate moments, smiled when he thought he should, and tried to make it look like he was paying attention when he very clearly wasn't. If McGee knew he was distracted – and as a trained investigator, it seemed likely that he did – he didn't complain or comment on it.

From the office, they had driven directly to the NEX where Tony bought the unhealthiest fast food he could manage to find and scarfed it down without really tasting it. He then browsed the new release DVDs for a while, realizing to his utter surprise how out of touch he had become with what was in the theaters. In that moment, he finally began to understand why Ziva always seemed so out of step with pop culture. Things like movies or television shows just didn't seem all that important when you had people routinely trying to kill you.

The realization that he didn't like what he was turning into had pursued him out of the NEX and still hounded his heels.

Now, as he and Tim rode the elevator down to the hospital basement, Tony found his mind turning to questions about his future. This entire Rota attack was an embarrassment to the U.S. public image – if they couldn't protect three Navy cops on an actual Navy base, why would voters believe they could protect them? – and he couldn't help but to wonder if he was about to become the victim of political expediency. It would be easy to pin all of the blame on him, especially with his record and the fact that he simply couldn't talk about what he'd been doing for the last eight months without written, legal permission from Shepard. Like he'd told Gibbs back when Chip tried to frame him for murder, he was a prosecutor's wet dream.

The Marine standing outside the morgue was different, but the Mossad officer was the same, and Tony gave him a quick once-over – if the intel Ziva had got from that piece of crap in Moscow was right, Mike's life could still be in danger and DiNozzo wondered if this kid who didn't look old enough to shave was actually capable of doing what might be necessary. Under his scrutiny, the boy straightened.

"Sir," he said, glancing once at the package of candles in Tony's hand.

_"What is your name?" _DiNozzo asked in slow, hesitant Hebrew. He could feel McGee's eyes on him and wondered if Special Agent Tommy would suddenly learn a new language. If it hadn't been too much effort, he would have sighed in disgust.

"Ari," the Mossad officer replied. Tony recoiled and glanced away, even as Tim drew in a sharp breath. _"But Officer David calls me by my family name, Livni."_

"Well, Officer Livni," Tony said, slipping back into English, "I want to thank you for watching over Michael Rivkin."

"It is an honor, sir." He gestured to the door. "He and Officer David left an hour ago, if you are looking for them. Officer Hadar is inside now."

"No," Tony replied. "I'm here to sit with Hadar," he said. "Stay," he ordered Tim, flashing a smile that he didn't quite feel.

"Woof," McGee retorted instantly and the comeback actually made Tony chuckle. Who knew his Probie could actually be funny?

"You're in the presence of a celebrity," he told the Marine corporal and Livni. A panicked look appeared in Tim's eyes and he shook his head urgently. Tony ignored him. "Mister Thom Gemcity," he said, waving his hand toward McGee like Vanna White revealing letters. Not that he would ever admit to watching Wheel of Fortune, even on pain of death.

"Of _Deep Six?" _Livni exclaimed with sudden excitement.

"Awesome!" the Marine said at the same moment. "Dude, I love Tibbs! He's like an actual Gunny!"

His work done, Tony slipped into the morgue alone. Hadar glanced up from where he sat, his eyes widening slightly when DiNozzo held up the box of candles. The Mossad officer gave an approving nod to where the old one was beginning to burn out and said nothing as Tony replaced it.

Silence reigned for several long minutes and DiNozzo studied the simple wooden coffin that Dana had been placed in. He rested his hand atop it for a moment before turning away. Without commenting, he walked to the far end of the morgue, his eyes on the numbers until he found the correct one. Under Hadar's watchful eye, he pulled the drawer open, unzipped the body bag within and stared at Paula's still recognizable face. The burns weren't that bad and if he didn't know better, he could fool himself into thinking that she was asleep.

"I'm sorry," he whispered softly, wishing she could open her eyes and tell him what a damned fool he was. It was the least he deserved.

But she wasn't asleep, no matter how much wanted her to be, and staring at her corpse was just … well, it was kind of creepy. _Cut it out, DiNozzo, _he imagined her saying. _You're starting to freak me out with all the leering. _Tony almost smiled.

"I'm sorry," he repeated before sliding the drawer shut once more.

Hadar gave him a silent nod but said nothing – from what Tony had read about Jewish mourning rituals, small talk was frowned upon while one sat _shmira_ and he intended to honor that, even if he didn't entirely understand the reasons behind it. The Mossad officer resumed his reading and Tony took the seat on the other side of Dana's body to listen.

He finally ducked out of the morgue several hours later to find McGee speaking softly with Officer Livni – Baby Mossad, Tony mentally tagged the boy – and scratching out notes on a tiny pad of paper. The Marine was listening intently, a fascinated gleam in his eyes, and Tony suspected that Tim was applying the skills he'd honed as a criminal investigator for book research. Until now, DiNozzo had never really thought about how useful it would be, but in his defense, he'd never thought about writing a book before either. Both of the men shut up at his sudden appearance.

"When are you taking her home?" Tony asked without preamble.

"Tomorrow, sir," Livni replied. "At dawn."

"My unit," the Marine offered softly, "has volunteered to provide honor detail, sir."

"Paula, Jim and Rick will be coming home with us," McGee said. "We leave right after they do." Tony nodded.

"Thank you," he said, his eyes moving between the corporal and Baby Mossad. "Both of you." They nodded. "Come on, McBodyguard," Tony said. "Time to head to the apartment so I can pack." As the two of them headed for the elevator, DiNozzo could hear the corporal's voice.

"Do you think it would've been inappropriate to ask for Special Agent Tommy's autograph too?"

"I'm going to shoot you, McGemcity," Tony hissed as they piled into the elevator. "In the knees with a high caliber bullet."

"What if I bought you beer instead?" McGee asked. Tony chuckled.

"Then I'll just shoot you in the toe," he said. "If it's good beer, I'll even let you pick which one of the little piggies never gets to go to the market again."

Instead of returning to the apartment, though, Tony drove them first to the NEX and then to Punta Candor, the beach where he'd almost died an eternity ago. The sun was already long gone as he parked the car and slid out from behind the steering wheel, but the sky was clear and the moon full. McGee cautiously climbed out of the car himself, grabbing the six pack of Dopplebock beer – Tony quietly thanked God for that German national who ran the liquor store on base.

"If I didn't know better," Tim said as he stared at the ocean, "I'd think you were trying to seduce me."

It was too much. Tony began to laugh and the accumulated stress of the last week finally found release. He fell back against the hood of the car, giggling so hard that he thought his chest was going to explode. For a heartbeat, McGee looked at him like he thought DiNozzo had gone mad – which only made Tony laugh that much harder – but he started chuckling himself and, before they knew it, both of them were in stitches. Tony couldn't even look at Tim without it starting all over.

"If you're expecting me to go all Milton Warden on you," DiNozzo finally managed to gasp out, "I'm afraid you're gonna be disappointed." McGee gave him an uncomprehending look. "Oh, for God's sake, Probie. _From Here to Eternity?_ Burt Lancaster? Deborah Kerr?" He shook his head in disgust and took a swig from the beer.

"Why are we here?" Tim asked as he took a drink from his bottle, grimacing at the taste and then trying to hide it.

"I almost died here," Tony replied. He pointed in the general direction of where the gunmen ambushed him so long ago. "Over there, actually." The beer slid down his throat. "And then I called Paula for help."

"You didn't kill her, Tony." McGee was watching him carefully, as if he was afraid that he would break. Tony snorted – he'd been broken for a _long _time. "Did you read Ziva's report? About how she helped the CIA capture this guy Castillo?"

"Yup." DiNozzo finished his beer and tossed the bottle into a nearby trashcan with perfect accuracy. "Doesn't matter, though. Paula wouldn't have been in Rota if I hadn't asked her to take over while I was off playing James Bond." He shook his head as he reached for another beer. "And look how _that _turned out," he spat with disgust. "Dana dead. Mike a basketcase. Nastya dead. Pete dead. Doctor Ivan dead. Pete's Mossad team dead. That GRU guy, Vasily, dead. And God knows how many civilians died at that café." Tim was silent as the words spilled out, his eyes wide and uncomprehending. "Say something, dammit," Tony ordered.

"I don't know _what _to say," McGee replied. "I've seen you in the field, Tony, and you _don't _screw up." He smirked. "Sure, you may _be _a screw-up," he conceded, "but there's nobody more professional once the chips are down."

"Thanks, Probie," Tony murmured. He was already halfway through his second beer and, while he didn't think he deserved the praise, it was nice to hear it. Even if he was convinced that McGee was just blowing smoke.

"Can I ask you a question?" Tim's voice and bearing were hesitant, and DiNozzo braced himself. He nodded as he finished off the second beer and sent the empty bottle flying through the air into the trash receptacle. Even though it sank into the can, he noticed that his aim was slightly off. "How did Dana die?"

"Why?" Tony didn't even try to hide the edge in his voice but, to McGee's credit, the younger man barely flinched.

"She worked with us in D.C. for a couple of weeks," he said, "and I was planning on modeling a new character after her in my next book." Tim hung his head. "I think she'll be on the dedication page this time," he added, "along with Paula, and Jim, and Rick."

"Dana died like the kick ass Israeli ninja she was," Tony said. "When me and Ziva entered the building," he continued with a grimace, "there were eight or nine dirtbags on the floor." It was a minor exaggeration, but a completely believable one. "None of us would have gotten out of there if she hadn't been such a bad ass."

"Tell me about it?" Tim asked softly. At DiNozzo's sharp look, he continued. "I don't want to write something that would demean how she really lived or died," he said and Tony nodded.

"Okay," he decided. "But if this comes back and bites me in the ass like the crap you wrote in _Deep Six_," he threatened half-heartedly, "then I'm afraid I _am_ going to have to shoot you."

"Deal," McGee said with a smile that indicated he didn't believe a word of it.

Tony spent the rest of the night talking about the craziness that had been his life for the last eight months, skipping over the _really _classified stuff or the outright embarrassing situations (like his drunken mistake with Dana and his accidental utterance of Ziva's name at _exactly _the wrong moment). This, in turn, led McGee to discussing his own undercover operation and, the more Tim spoke, the more convinced Tony was that his friend was already in too deep. DiNozzo felt a rush of anger toward the director for how she had manipulated McGee and he had to wonder why Gibbs had let it go on as long as it had. From someone completely uninvolved, it was obvious that Tim's relationship with this Jeanne Benoit person could _not _end well.

Still, it felt good to talk about some of the things that had happened and he found himself feeling a little bit closer to normal than before.

They returned to the base just before dawn so Tony could throw some clothes into a bag and they could grab a quick bite to eat – cold pizza washed down with room temperature Coke – before driving to the hospital. There was very little pomp or ceremony to Dana's transfer from the hospital to the waiting cargo plane on the tarmac, but somehow, Tony knew that she would have preferred it that way. Michael thanked each of the Marines who participated individually, the intensity of his gratitude causing them all to tear up, before finally turning on DiNozzo.

"Keep in touch," he ordered as he offered his hand. Tony took it.

"There are still bars in Tel Aviv I haven't tried yet," DiNozzo said with a grin that he knew was a shade too bright. "I'm sorry I can't be there for her funeral."

"She would understand." Rivkin turned away, embraced a silent Ziva, and then nodded to Officer Livni who pushed Michael's wheelchair into the plane without comment.

"Remember my offer," Officer Hadar said before joining him. Both Gibbs and Ziva gave Tony an almost identical look of concern at the cryptic statement, but DiNozzo ignored it as he grabbed his small bag and headed toward their waiting plane to join the Marine honor guard preparing to load the bodies of the three fallen NCIS agents. Like Michael had done before, he thanked each of the jarheads personally before climbing aboard, finding his seat and collapsing into it. Sleep came almost at once.

He didn't wake until they reached D.C.

* * *

**Blenderdana:** In regards to Abby not sharing her suspicions with Tim re: the whole Gibbs/Ziva/Tony fiasco, I intended for this to be another indication of how McGee's extracurricular activities has led to a distancing between him and the people he really considers to be his friends. Plus, I'd like to think that Abby is responsible enough to know when to keep her mouth shut and her nose out of something that really isn't any of her business. She'd have to have a fairly high security clearance to do the work she does and if Ziva asked her to not talk about it, I'd like to think Abby would obey instead of turning into a gossipy teenager. As to Ziva's connection to Castillo, that's covered in this chapter. Due to the limitation of 3rd Person Limited, I had no way of relating that she had been interviewed since the POV characters were mostly unaware of it.

**j: **Thanks for the fantastic feedback. Although it is simply anecdotal, I'm encountering more and more people upset with the direction NCIS has taken, particularly in season 6 with the overwhelming focus on Super!Gibbs and the steady denigration of the other characters (Tony turning into an utter idiot, Ziva becoming Mossad!Barbie, McGee turning into a smug jackass). I doubt it will improve any time soon, although I'm a pessimist. As to doing Shepard's POV ... I've really tried but I can't get into her head and have come to the conclusion that I really don't like her much during seasons 4 and 5 because of the various crap she pulled. As to never fixing the various relationships, I don't plan for them to ever fully get back to where they were, but this _is _ultimately a Tony/Ziva story so...


	46. Things Fall Apart, 46: Jethro

**A/N: **This chapter picks up about six days after the previous one.

* * *

**Jethro**

His team had been back in D.C. for a full work week, but it already felt longer.

Something fundamental had changed during their trip to Rota and Jethro wasn't quite sure what it was, only that it revolved around DiNozzo. As far as he could tell, Tony was generally avoiding Ziva (and him, though that part wasn't exactly a surprise) by using work and the coming internal affairs investigation as an excuse. Abby was impossible for DiNozzo to ignore though and Gibbs had seen the Goth with Tony several times in the last five days, her face alight with glee at him being back in Washington. Ducky too seemed to be included in the small circle that Tony allowed to be close to him, as well as McGee, Palmer and Lee, all three of whom were treated with an unusual amount of respect coming from DiNozzo. Even Cassie Yates seemed more than welcome around DiNozzo, despite their general lack of familiarity with one another.

Tony's avoidance of all things Ziva had the expected result, and, when she wasn't at the Embassy on business (which was becoming a surprisingly common occurrence), the Israeli had spent the last five days in a decidedly foul mood. For some reason, Gibbs was on her bad side too, and he couldn't even get within ten feet of her without receiving a dark scowl and muttered comments in some foreign language that he didn't understand. Jethro wasn't sure what it was he had done that pissed her off so badly – he suspected it was the ham-handed way he'd treated Tony in Spain – and she wasn't talking to him any more than necessary to explain, so he simply carried on, pretending like nothing had changed and that three-quarters of his team didn't actively want to see him on an autopsy table with his chest cracked open. He was used to people hating him, after all, what with the second 'b' standing for bastard.

What _did _bother him was how cool Ducky was treating him. It was like how Doctor Mallard acted immediately after Jethro returned from his Mexican vacation, and Gibbs just _knew _that it was because of Tony. Gibbs ignored it for the first three days, was too busy on the fourth with paperwork to make a visit to Ducky's lair, but by the fifth day – today – he'd had enough. The moment he dismissed his team for the day, Jethro mentally fortified himself for a confrontation with Doctor Mallard (no one ever believed him when he said that Duck had a temper worse than his, even if it took longer for the M.E. to actually get angry) and headed into the lion's den.

The elevator had been on the fritz all day – for some reason, everyone in the office was blaming him – so he took the stairs and, as he descended down the final flight, the sound of familiar voices caused him to slow. He frowned when he recognized Ziva, and hesitated at the stairwell door. It was propped open like always – once closed, it took a linebacker, a crowbar, or a hyperactive Goth with more energy than sense to open, which was something of a fire hazard but still hadn't been fixed yet – and Gibbs peeked through the crack to discover that the door to autopsy was locked open as well.

"I do not know what to do, Ducky," Ziva was saying. She paced back and forth through Jethro's line of sight, and he leaned back, unsure whether this was something he should be listening to. When Doctor Mallard responded, his dulcet tones calm, Gibbs knew that he shouldn't be here.

"About Tony?"

"Yes, about Tony!" Ziva sounded so frustrated that it actually caused Gibbs to wince. He glanced back up the stairs and considered returning later. Like next week or perhaps the week after. "He will not even talk to me!"

"Perhaps he is simply busy, my dear." Ducky didn't sound like he entirely believed the excuse himself.

"Not _that _busy," Ziva retorted. "He had dinner with you and Abby the first night, dinner with Abby and Tim the second night, dinner with McGee and Lee the third night-"

"Mister Palmer was there as well," Mallard interjected calmly. Jethro flinched at the inarticulate noise of annoyance and anger her could hear Ziva make in response even as he sighed softly. "I do not know what to tell you, Ziva." Ducky's voice was soft, sad. "Agent Cassidy was his friend," he said, "and from what he's _not _told me about the last eight months, I suspect it was rather hard. He needs you to be patient with him."

"My patience has run out," the Israeli stated flatly after a moment. "I was hoping for some advice about how to … how to _make _him talk to me."

"My dear," Mallard said with a smile in his voice, "Tony has never had any problems _talking_ to _anyone_. I have often accused him of loving the sound of his own voice. _Listening_, however…" Both of them chuckled and even Gibbs smiled.

"How do I get through to him?" Ziva wondered. "He is like Gibbs when he does not want to hear something." Jethro frowned – he wasn't that bad; it wasn't his fault that he usually right and everyone else was wrong – as he took a seat on the stairs.

"That is because they are very similar, my dear. Jethro was much like Tony when he was younger."

"And now Tony is turning into Gibbs," Ziva added sadly. Jethro swallowed – he'd heard the comparisons between DiNozzo and himself numerous times, but he'd never really seen the resemblance until their confrontation on the tarmac at Rota. As someone intimately familiar with self-loathing over past events that he couldn't actually have affected, looking at Tony had been like looking into a mirror. "I am worried about him, Ducky," Ziva said. "I am worried he will do something stupid out of misplaced grief."

"Then perhaps you should let him know," Doctor Mallard said, the words calm and measured. "Do what you must to make him listen." He chuckled. "Handcuffs are marvelous restraints."

"Ducky!" The Mossad officer sounded unsure whether to be amused or shocked.

"I was young once, my dear," the doctor pointed out with another chuckle, "and I have lived a _very _full life." Ziva snorted with laughter before murmuring something that Gibbs could not hear. A moment later, she was leaving autopsy and disappeared into the elevator. Jethro shook his head; it figured that the damned thing would work _now_, after having put him in an uncomfortable position to overhear things he didn't even want to think about.

"You can come in now, Jethro," Ducky's voice called out, causing Gibbs to jerk in surprise. He smirked as he pushed himself to his feet.

"How did you know?" he asked as he walked into the doctor's domain. Ducky gave him a wry glance.

"Abigail claims I am a magical creature like an elf or somesuch," Mallard replied as he washed his hands in the large sink, "but the truth of the matter is I saw you peek out of the stairwell while Ziva was venting." He frowned slightly and shot a glower in Gibbs' direction. "It is considered rather rude to eavesdrop on private conversations, Jethro."

"Didn't mean to," Gibbs said with a grimace. "I can think of several things I just learned that I could have handled never knowing."

"You are referring to Tony and Ziva, I presume." Ducky shook his head. "Surely you weren't blind to their affection for one another."

"Actually," Jethro corrected with a smirk, "I was talking about you and handcuffs." He gave a mock shudder. Ducky retorted with a malicious smile.

"Bondage as a sexual practice is a time-honored practice," he began in his lecturing tone, mischief glittering in his eyes. "There was this time, when I was in Africa…"

"Please, Duck. Just … stop." Gibbs held up a hand and the doctor chortled. They stood there in silence for a moment.

"You have done Anthony a grave disservice, Jethro," Mallard finally announced, his voice dark as if he were pronouncing judgment. "He needs validation right now, not a head slap or your Marine tough love." Gibbs grimaced.

"I know," he admitted with a sigh. "Every time I try," he said, "it just comes out wrong."

"That's because," Ducky said, "you are, in Abigail's words, emotionally crippled."

"Abby said that?" Gibbs asked, his eyes narrowing. And to think, she was his favorite!

_"I _havebeen saying that for ten years, Jethro." The medical examiner dried his hands and shook his head. "You and Tony are too similar," he said. "That's why you're having so much trouble communicating right now."

"Then what do I do?" Gibbs demanded. He tried to sound harsh and uncompromising, but it just came out tired.

"Prove how you feel with deeds, not words," the doctor said. "Show Tony that you respect him and what he's accomplished by your actions." He pulled his glasses off and peered at the lenses, frowning at something Gibbs couldn't see. "Words can be hollow," he said. "With his upbringing, Tony knows that better than most. But actions … those he understands."

The _ding _of the elevator arriving caused them both to half turn and suspend their conversation. Deputy Director Leon Vance stepped through the door a moment later, a thick pile of folders under one arm and an ever-present toothpick in his mouth.

"Ah, Leon," Ducky said instantly, a wide smile on his face. "What brings you to my humble domain?"

"Good evening, Doctor Mallard," Vance replied before nodding toward Jethro. "I was looking for Gibbs, actually."

"Well, then," Mallard said brightly, "I shall leave you to it." He grabbed his coat off the nearby rack and began to don it. "It's Thursday, after all, and Mother shall be wanting to watch her ridiculous wrestling." With a shake of his head, he pulled on his hat. "And Jethro," he added, "do remember what I said."

"I will, Duck. And thanks."

"Anytime. Good evening, gentlemen." He was out of autopsy and in the elevator rather quickly for someone his age.

"What can I do for you, Leon?" Gibbs asked as he leaned against the wide sink. He watched as Vance placed the stack of folders atop the nearest autopsy table, frowning at his inability to make out what was stamped on them. Getting old, he decided sourly, wasn't much fun.

"You're aware that I'm in charge of Special Agent DiNozzo's IA hearing?" Vance asked. Jethro nodded hesitantly. "I've been going over his records," the deputy director continued, "and I've got to say, he's not the man I thought he was."

"Tony has a way of surprising you," Gibbs said. "Making people underestimate him is his favorite trick."

"That certainly explains some things," Vance mused. He glanced down at the files …

And every one of Gibbs' instincts started howling.

He narrowed his eyes as he studied the dark-skinned man in front of him. To most people, Leon Vance was an enigma, the mysterious figure who headed most of NCIS' covert operations due to his own extensive background in shadow ops. Vance's background was rife with conflicting stories and rumors. There were hints that he had been a SEAL in the 80s, but just as many indications that he was in CIA wetworks during that decade. Until his promotion to the deputy directorship of operations two years ago, he'd headed OSP out of Los Angeles and had an _excellent _closure rate, almost as good as Gibbs'. He also had close ties to Mossad thanks to years of service in the Middle East, and Gibbs knew for a fact that Vance and Eli David considered each other close friends. What worried Jethro, though, was why Leon was in charge of the IA investigation, no matter the technical reasons being his high rank in the service.

"What's this about?" Gibbs demanded. "If you're thinking about throwing Tony to the wolves, you damned well better think again."

"Don't be ridiculous," Vance retorted. "We're not in the habit of throwing away valuable assets like DiNozzo." Jethro bristled at the use of the word 'asset'; in his experience, people referred to that way were too often seen as disposable and replaceable by suits far removed from danger. "I know the two of you aren't on the best of terms right now," the deputy director said, "but I need to know if you're willing to testify on DiNozzo's behalf."

"Absolutely." Gibbs crossed his arms. "But shouldn't you be asking the director about this? Tony was working for her when this Rota mess went down."

"She's on my list," Vance said with a smirk, "right after I get Officer David's statement about Moscow." He chewed briefly on his toothpick. "You wouldn't happen to know where she's at right now, would you?"

"Not a clue," Gibbs replied. It was a lie – there was a better than ninety-five percent chance she was on her way to Tony's hotel room right now – but Vance didn't need to know that.

"I'm on his side, Jethro," the deputy director said. "From what these files have told me," he added, tapping the stack of folders with his left hand, "DiNozzo is a good agent."

"One of the best," Gibbs corrected. He smiled, though it didn't touch his eyes. "And you can quote me on that." Vance nodded.

"I will," he said before smirking. "Eli David said the same thing," Vance added with a soft chuckle, "but also said that Mossad wants him if we don't." Jethro blinked in surprise.

He wasn't sure how to take that.


	47. Things Fall Apart, 47: Ziva

**A/N: **This chapter takes place mostly concurrently with the previous one. And it is without a doubt a Tony/Ziva chapter.

And FYI, I _like _Leon Vance as a character ... mostly. And given that I've already written Eli David & Michael Redshirt Rivkin as sympathetic characters, there might be a clue about how I'm gonna approach Leon...

* * *

**Ziva**

Ziva was a woman on a mission.

From the Navy Yard, she drove directly to the Embassy Suites hotel where Tony was staying. The entire way, her pulse pounded as she silently rehearsed the words she meant to say. This was unfamiliar ground for her; with her looks, she was almost always the pursued in any relationship, not the pursuer, and her failures with men during the past eight months – success with Castillo notwithstanding; that man would have had sex with her eighty year old great-aunt if the woman seemed willing – had badly shaken her confidence. She was not sure what would be worse: if Tony listened to her apologies and laughed, or if he just did not care anymore.

Her stomach fell at the expression on his face when he greeted her at his door. It was resigned and sad, weary and uncomfortable, all at the same time. Ziva swallowed – she could not remember ever being this ill at ease in her entire life. Even her first assassination mission had been easier than this!

"Go home, Ziva," Tony said dully as he tried to close the door. She reacted more quickly, shouldering past him so she could enter the room. At a glance, she could tell that he had not spent a great deal of time here – a duffel bag was propped up next to the dresser and an open suitcase was on the small table near the window. The bed did not appear to have been slept in, and the locked alcohol cabinet had not been opened.

"We need to talk," she said as she crossed her arms and pinned him with a look. He sighed heavily.

"No, we don't." Tony opened the door wider, a clear indication that he wanted her out, and Ziva frowned. She stepped closer to him and pushed the door shut.

"Please, Tony," she urged. "If you won't talk, then at least listen to me."

"Oh, _now _you're going to talk to me?" DiNozzo said incredulously. "After how you wouldn't even _look _at me when Gibbs came back from Mexico?" The vitriol in his voice caused her to recoil slightly, but she inhaled sharply and seized the opportunity he presented.

"I am not sleeping with Gibbs," she said quickly. "I have _never _slept with Gibbs." Tony's lips tightened and he looked away, disbelief written on every line of his body. "I don't know why you would even think that," Ziva said.

"What was I _supposed _to think?" Tony hissed. "You dropped me faster than Gibbs dropped wives the minute he got back. You wouldn't talk to me, return my calls or my emails. You wouldn't even _look _at me while we were at work!"

"Mossad had me under surveillance," Ziva replied, fighting the urge to fidget or look away from him, "and Officer Bashan made some threats against you." At his look, she frowned. "They had photos, Tony! Photos of us together!"

"So?"

"So it was too dangerous for us to continue our relationship until I had the surveillance lifted!" Ziva began pacing in front of the perfectly made bed, gesticulating wildly with her hands as she spoke. "If any of my enemies inside or outside of Mossad knew about you," she said, "they could use our relationship to their advantage."

"We didn't _have _a relationship," Tony growled angrily. Ziva froze in place and shot him a startled look. "In a _relationship,"_ he said, _"both _parties make decisions _together_." He glared at her. _"You _made the decision to end whatever it was we had without even telling me _why._"

"Because I was protecting you!"

"I'm a big boy, Officer David," he snapped, using her rank and surname like they were insults. "I don't _need _you to protect me!"

"So you'd rather they have killed you?" Ziva demanded furiously.

"I'd rather _you _have _told _me," Tony retorted sharply, "instead of deciding I was too fucking _stupid _to have any say in the matter!" He loomed over her, invading her personal space. "But no," he said harshly. "That would require you to actually give a damn what somebody else thinks!"

"I do care," Ziva started to argue, but DiNozzo was on a roll and the words rolled out of his mouth, sharp and bitter.

"From day one," he said loudly, "every single conversation we've had has been on _your _terms! The _minute _it starts to get into uncomfortable territory, you shut me down!" His eyes flashed dangerously. "Remember the day we were trapped in that stupid cargo container? You were fine with teasing and flirting with me right up until I mentioned your dad when you closed off like a damned robot." Ziva frowned; she did not remember that, actually. "I answered any question you asked, but you? You only answered the ones that didn't make you uncomfortable!"

"That is how I was trained," she defended herself. Tony snorted.

"Bullshit," he said instantly. "I knew more about Mike and Dana inside of a week than I _still _know about you," he pointed out, "and they had the same damned training you did!" Ziva blinked – she didn't know how to answer that – and looked down. This was _not _turning out how she had hoped. "For the last eight months, I've lived in that world, Ziva." Tony ran his hands through his slightly too-long hair. "I get that there are things you don't like talking about … God knows I've done things this year that I'd like to forget about … but you never even gave me a chance! It was always your way or not at all." His eyes could be chips of ice for all the warmth they exuded. "When we starting sleeping together," he said harshly, "I actually thought that would change, I thought you might let me in, but you didn't even try."

"My father," she began hesitantly, but Tony interrupted once more.

"Is an overbearing jackass with control issues," he finished sharply. "Yeah, I get that. So was mine, but I don't use him as an excuse for never letting anyone get close to me." Ziva's eyes narrowed.

"No," she said coldly. "You use what your mother did to you for that." It was a mistake to say, and she knew it, but somehow could not stop the words from tumbling from her lips. Tony's face went hard and he clenched his jaw shut so tightly that Ziva could see the muscles dance. "I'm sorry," she said instantly. "I should not have said that."

"I think you should go," he said darkly as he turned away.

"I am not leaving until you listen to me," Ziva replied sharply. She drew in a deep breath. "I am sorry," she said carefully. "I took you for granted and did not treat you with the respect you deserved." Swallowing, she looked down, breaking eye contact. "None of us did," she said, "but you have forgiven them."

"Not all of 'em," Tony murmured. He glanced away and Ziva could almost see the anger drain out of him, leaving behind an exhausted, emotionally drained man who no longer knew what to do.

"Gibbs," she guessed. At his flinch, she knew she was right. "He was not the same without you here, Tony," she said. "With you gone, he lost his way and it took months before he was back to anything resembling normal."

"Five years," DiNozzo muttered, the non sequitur causing Ziva to hesitate. "Five years and all I get is a 'you'll do.' I busted my ass for him…" He shot her a quick glare. "And you," he said tightly. "You show up and, inside five _days, _he gives you the acceptance I've tried to get from him for years." Tony shook his head, an inarticulate noise of disgust falling from his lips.

"Because of Ari," Ziva whispered. She wet her lips and closed her eyes. "I killed him," she admitted softly. "I killed Ari, not Gibbs." Even now, long after she had learned the truth about her brother's deceit and treachery, the memory stung. Tony's response caused her breath to catch.

"I know," he said simply. At her wide-eyed look, he gave her a sour look. "I _am _a trained investigator," Tony pointed out. "Anyone familiar with Gibbs' basement who actually _looked_ at the crime scene photos could tell he didn't have a shot. The round that killed Ari had to come from a third person." Ziva stared at him for a moment.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"It wasn't my place," Tony said. "I didn't know he was your brother until later, though." He shrugged apologetically.

"Half-brother," she corrected. "Now you know," she said. "You wondered why Gibbs accepted me so quickly. That's why." DiNozzo shook his head.

"No, it isn't," he said. "You're what he imagines his daughter would be like if she was still alive." Another frown appeared. "Didn't know about _her _until later either," he grumbled before shaking his head. "I can't compete with that," Tony said.

"If I'm a surrogate daughter," Ziva wondered, "then why did you think we were sleeping together?"

"I didn't say it made sense," Tony replied crossly, "and you didn't exactly give me any indication that I was _wrong."_

"You were," she said cautiously. "Gibbs is old enough to be my father," she added.

"So? My current step-mother is young enough to be my dad's grand-daughter." A disgusted expression flashed across Tony's face. "Oh, God," he muttered. "That means she's almost young enough to be _my _daughter. I think I'm going to be sick."

"Stop it, Tony," Ziva said calmly. She invaded his personal space once more, causing him to take an aborted half-step back. The back of his knees hit the edge of the bed and he quickly reached down with his right hand to stabilize himself. "You accused me of … shutting down when I was uncomfortable," she said. "You do the same with humor."

"We're all screwed up somehow," Tony declared. He exhaled bitterly, and it sounded so exhausted that her heart ached. "You want forgiveness?" he asked and rushed on without waiting for her response. "It's yours. I forgave you a long time ago." Ziva studied him, wondering if he was just telling her what she wanted to hear. "Doesn't mean I stopped being angry at you," he continued. "I'm _still _angry at you." She nodded in silent gratitude and took it as the olive branch he clearly meant it to be. "You saved my ass in Moscow and I owe you one," he added a moment later.

"Where do we go from here?" Ziva asked.

"Nowhere _to _go," DiNozzo replied. "If this stupid IA board doesn't take my badge," he said, "I'm hopefully going back to Rota." He started to turn away and, from his expression and body language, Ziva realized he had given up on _them_. In his eyes, they were over, with no hopes of salvaging whatever relationship may have existed between them so many months ago. She narrowed her eyes as Ducky's parting words from earlier sprang to mind: nothing worth having is easy.

Without allowing herself to think about the consequences, Ziva stepped closer to him, grabbing him and pulling his lips to hers. Tony tried to push her away for a moment, but it was a half-hearted attempt at best, and his arms quickly wrapped around her body, crushing her against him as their tongues dueled. Ziva moaned – it had been so long since she had tasted him! – and they fell onto the bed, talented fingers fumbling over buttons and zippers to find the flesh beneath.

It was over far too soon, but Tony made sure she finished before he did, and Ziva drifted off with the feel of his arms around her. She did not sleep long – ten minutes, perhaps – and woke the moment he rolled out of bed to turn off the overhead light. The sight of his naked body, even in shadow, caused her hunger to stir once more, but she drew back at the conflicted expression on his face.

"I can't do this again," he said at her quizzical look. "I want to believe you, Ziva," he added and she knew he was referring to Gibbs. "I really do."

"But you don't." She felt a stab of pain lance through her chest at the realization and somehow managed to keep it from showing on her face.

"You once told me," Tony said with an anguished look, "that you are an exceptional liar." Ziva flinched at the memory; they had been lounging together on his couch after watching a ridiculous movie about a spy who kept the truth about his job from his family. Tony had insisted that it was impossible to keep something like that from eventually being found out, but she had told him he was a fool. A _very _skilled liar, she had told him, could keep the truth hidden indefinitely. At the time, he had playfully asked her if she was speaking from experience and Ziva had jokingly made the comment he was now throwing back in her face.

"I am not lying to you, Tony," she said softly. "Please trust me."

"I do," he replied. "In the field, there's nobody I'd rather have at my six. Not even Gibbs."

"And _out_ of the field?"

"I don't know," Tony said. He sat on the edge of the mattress, mere centimeters away though it felt like continents separated them. She crawled closer and tentatively placed a hand on his shoulder, noting instantly the coiled tension in his muscles. Until this moment, she had not realized what the stress of eight months undercover had done to him.

"If I ask him," Ziva said, "my father will transfer me to Spain with you." Tony gave her a surprised look and she smiled. "The weather in Rota is lovely," she pointed out, "and I cannot watch your excessively hairy butt from here in D.C."

"You love it here," he said.

"This year," she replied, "I have not liked Washington at all." Deciding that the old saying about fortune favoring the bold held true, she positioned herself behind him and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Besides," she said after she dropped a kiss at the nape of his neck, "the one thing I have learned from watching your movies is that true love conquers all." Tony tensed.

"Pity this isn't the movies, huh?" he asked softly before laughing bitterly. "How exactly would you phrase a transfer request anyway?" he wondered.

"Very carefully," Ziva answered. She felt the chuckle he gave her vibrate through his body and relaxed slightly. They still had much work to do, but she was hopeful that all was not lost. "Come back to bed," she urged. His shoulders drooped but he finally nodded. Ziva waited until he stretched out on the mattress before wrapping her arms around him and burying her nose against his neck. She breathed in his scent and smiled at how his taut muscles gradually slackened into sleep.

Tony's slumber was restless – he tossed and turned for much of the night, whimpering and groaning as nightmares that were all too familiar to someone with a background like hers plagued him. Each time he snapped awake, Ziva would kiss him softly until he became aware that he was actually awake and not in the middle of another night terror. Usually, it would be enough to calm him so he could drift back to sleep, but twice, he flipped her over and made love to her so intensely, so passionately that her body ached long afterward. Ziva knew that she would be sore in the morning but it was worth it, especially if it helped Tony remember that he was alive, that all of the madness he had seen in the last eight months was worth it, that Dana's sacrifice and Paula's death had not been in vain. Positive, life-affirming sex would help him begin to heal and that was her first priority.

The spectacular orgasms he gave her were just an outstanding fringe benefit.

At zero five, a cell phone rang. Tony was already up and in the shower, so Ziva tracked down the source of the annoying sound and flipped it open once she saw the name on the caller ID.

"David," she answered.

"I'm not going to ask why you're answering his phone," Gibbs said flatly, though Ziva thought she could hear a hint of humor in his voice. She smirked.

"I do not think I need to word it out for you," she replied calmly. "What do you want, Gibbs?"

"Need you both at MTAC in thirty minutes." Ziva frowned and glanced at the door leading to the bathroom. Almost as if he could see her, Gibbs spoke again. "That means no grab-assing in the shower, David." He hung up before she could reply.

So, in retaliation, she stood up and joined Tony. She needed him to wash her back after all.


	48. Things Fall Apart, 48: Jethro

**A/N: **This chapter takes place mostly concurrently with the previous on. And for those of you who are worried that things are going to be sweetness and light from this point on, let me reassure you otherwise ... although if you're stringently opposed to the Tony/Ziva pairing, you might not like what's down the road...

This chapter includes what I call a "soft" crossover with _Chuck_; I use a couple of characters from that show, but it doesn't go any farther than name dropping.

* * *

**Jethro**

He was already awake when the director called him.

From autopsy and Deputy Director Vance's troubling questions, Gibbs had driven home so he could work on his boat and think. The very nature of Leon's inquiries bothered the hell out of him; even to a political neophyte such as himself, it was clear that the SecNav was in full CYA mode and was applying pressure to NCIS for a prompt resolution of the Rota investigation. Based on the _careful _way Vance was phrasing his questions, it was equally obvious that the deputy director was trying to find a way do so without any of the blowback damaging Tony's career or reputation. That it was even necessary infuriated Jethro – DiNozzo had been doing his job, dammit! He didn't deserve this! Even the feel of the boat underneath his fingers wasn't helping him relax, and he actually jumped when his phone trilled.

"I need you, DiNozzo, Ziva and McGee in MTAC in half an hour," Jenny told him without preamble. She didn't bother to wait for his response before hanging up and Gibbs stared at the cell for an extended heartbeat. _So that's what that feels like, _he mused before dialing McGee's number. Ziva didn't answer her phone so, with a slight grimace, Jethro called Tony's. He flinched when David answered the line, even as a smirk started to stretch his lips.

Despite being the farthest one away from the Navy Yard, he was the first to arrive and still had time to hit the 24/7 coffee shop on the way. This early in the morning, the NCIS building almost seemed abandoned, and Gibbs swept into Jenny's office without bothering to knock. She looked up from the paperwork scattered in front of her, but the flicker of annoyance that appeared on her face was quickly replaced with gratitude when he placed one of the cups he was carrying on her desk.

"Tony and Ziva will be here in an hour," he said, finally noting that she had a visitor. Gibbs blinked in recognition and gave the man a cautious nod. Of all the people in the world Jethro would have expected to see in Jenny Shepard's office at five in the morning, this man was near the bottom of the list.

"I told you thirty minutes," Jenny grumbled. "Why are they going to be late?" Jethro shot a wry grin in her direction.

"Do you really need to ask?" he wondered, the innuendo in his voice causing her to choke slightly on her coffee even as her visitor chuckled. Jenny frowned.

"So much for your 'don't date a co-worker' rule," she said and Gibbs snorted.

"Last I checked," he replied, "DiNozzo's not on my team anymore, so it doesn't really apply." He gave her a long, unblinking look. "Even if _I_ still consider him one of mine," he added, knowing that she would recognize the unstated warning that he would fight for Tony, regardless of whether it meant taking on the Secretary of the Navy or the president himself. Jenny nodded.

They adjourned to MTAC a few minutes later, just as McGee was arriving. Gibbs nodded approvingly when he caught sight of both Cassie Yates and Michelle Lee filing into the bullpen; obviously, Tim had creatively interpreted his orders and rallied the rest of his team. Jethro's good mood faded the moment they entered MTAC and he saw the set-up waiting on the big screen. It was divided into four distinct sections, each currently offline but waiting to be connected to. Leon Vance joined them several minutes later.

As Jethro predicted, Tony and Ziva finally appeared nearly an hour later. At a glance, Gibbs could see the difference in them and felt his concern over DiNozzo's mental health ease slightly. They were both wearing the same clothes from yesterday and their hair was still wet, but neither seemed to be as awkward around one another as they had been the rest of this week. Ziva's normally fluid gait was somewhat less so, as if she was stiff in places Gibbs really didn't want to think about on the young woman he'd started to think of as a daughter, but there was a noticeable gleam in her eye that had been missing for months. Tony also seemed to be a much better mood than before; ever since he had walked off that Osprey in Rota, there had been a sharp edge to him, like he was holding himself back or trembling over an unseen precipice, but it was dulled so much that he actually seemed like the Tony of old, the one that Jethro missed so much.

Jenny gave them a slight frown – she _hated _having to wait for anything – which in turn caused her visitor, who had been facing away from the two, to turn and look at them, a knowing expression on his face. At his smile, Ziva paled and literally stumbled in surprise, grabbing Tony's shoulder to keep from falling. For his part, DiNozzo barely reacted beyond a subtle wince, though whether that was from her grip or the man's identity Jethro couldn't tell. Gibbs watched the interactions for a second before glancing beyond them to where McGee was observing with open glee.

It was not often, after all, that Tim got to see Tony interact with the father of the woman DiNozzo was _clearly _sleeping with.

"It is good to see you, Ziva," Eli David remarked as he took a few steps closer so he could give her a discreet hug and a kiss on the cheek.

"Papa," she replied softly, her voice so low it almost sounded like a squeak. The director of Mossad smiled before turning his attention to Tony. For a single, extended heartbeat, the two men studied one another and Gibbs realized that everyone in MTAC was riveted to the scene before them. It was like a train wreck waiting to happen. Jethro _wanted _to look away but he just couldn't.

And then, Tony had to ruin it by acting perfectly normal.

"Director," he said simply in greeting as he offered his hand. David accepted it with just as little fanfare.

"What have I told you, Anthony?" he asked calmly. "My name is Eli."

Gibbs stared.

Ziva gaped.

McGee snickered.

It was surreal.

"I'm sorry about Dana, sir," Tony said. "I accept full responsibility for her death."

"Do not be ridiculous," Eli retorted. "Her death was a loss, yes, but highlighted certain … inadequacies in my organization." His eyes narrowed and he gave Ziva a sidelong glance. "Although I _am _curious as to how you managed to convince my daughter to abandon her assignment to assist you."

"I asked nicely," DiNozzo said. "I think I even smiled." Ziva gave him a decidedly unamused look even as her father laughed out loud. Without another word, Eli turned his head to where Jenny stood next to Vance and nodded.

"McGee," she called out, "make the connection." Tim turned to obey without comment. "Jethro, Ziva," Shepard said, "have a seat. DiNozzo, come here." Tony frowned but followed Eli to where Jenny was waiting.

A moment later, the four split screens snapped alive and Gibbs' breath caught as he instantly recognized the features of the three men and one woman. He wondered how often the directors of the Central Intelligence Agency, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the National Security Agency, and Homeland Security interfaced on such a personal level. In this post-9/11 era, he suspected it was more common than it used to be.

"We're pressed for time," Jenny said without waiting for introductions, "so I'll get right to it." She clasped her hands at the small of her back. "As you are all aware, NCIS has been conducting an investigation with Mossad for the last eight months into an international arms procurement organization."

"Is this about Moscow?" General Beckman of the NSA interjected. "We've been fielding calls from the Russians for days. I hope we weren't involved in that."

"We were," Jenny replied, "but not how you think." She gave DiNozzo a quick glance that would have been missed by anyone else.

Jethro noticed. And it made him frown.

"The team in this investigation was following leads concerning this man," Shepard continued, discreetly gesturing to McGee. The image of a grim-looking Caucasian male appeared on the screen. In the process, the four directors were shuffled to one side, their respective displays shrinking to make room. "Viggo Drantyev," Jenny identified. "Ex-KGB, specializes in wetworks."

"We knew him as Nikolai Chebrikov," Director Graham of CIA interrupted. "After the Russian coup in '91, he made overtures to us about defecting before he dropped out of sight. He hasn't been on our radar for years." Jenny nodded.

"Two months ago," she said, "he was part of a six-man cleaner team that tried to take out NCIS Special Agent DiNozzo in Spain." At her gesture, McGee hit another button and crime scene photos replaced the grim-looking Russian's visage. Gibbs inhaled sharply at the sight of the four bodies scattered around the small alleyway. Blood was everywhere. Someone whistled softly – it was Graham – and Jethro could see how both Ziva and McGee reacted; the Mossad officer gave Tony a quick, understanding look, while Tim's eyes bugged out and he looked at DiNozzo as if he was seeing him for the first time.

"Drantyev was one of the two members of the hit squad that walked away," Jenny continued and Tony's head snapped around toward her, surprise stamped on his face. Another nod to McGee caused another image to appear on the screen, this time of an overweight man DiNozzo clearly recognized. "Dmitri SergeyevichKramnik checked into a local hospital later that day and was treated for a ruptured testicle."

DiNozzo snorted.

It was obviously an instinctive reaction, but caused all eyes to shift to him. Jenny frowned.

"Do you have something to add, Agent DiNozzo?" she asked. He shrugged.

"No, ma'am," Tony replied. "I just didn't think I kicked him _that _hard." Jethro looked down to hide the smile curling his lips. Directors Graham and David didn't even bother hiding their amusement and, out of the corner of his eye, Gibbs could see Ziva hiding her lips with one hand.

"Moving on," Jenny said with a soft sigh. She once more nodded to McGee and a new photo appeared on the monitor. It was of Kramnik meeting with two other men and an attractive blonde woman in an outdoor café somewhere in France if the décor was any indication. One of the men was a hard-faced bald Caucasian in his late thirties or early forties, and the other was an equally grim-looking man several years older than any of his dining companions. Jethro recognized the two men at once: Trent Kort, a CIA operative they had run afoul of fairly recently, and René Benoit, the arms dealer known as La Grenouille.

Jenny's white whale. Suddenly, this was beginning to make a little more sense.

"I don't believe these men need any introduction," she said coolly. "This was taken three weeks ago by a Mossad agent in Paris."

"Kort has already been disavowed by the CIA," Graham said quickly. "He is currently considered a rogue agent."

"I'm still not seeing how this is of importance to us," DHS Secretary Chertoff remarked, "or why the Navy is involved in the first place. This seems like something Langley should be handling, not NCIS." Jenny bristled before giving Eli David a significant look.

"Mossad apprehended Mister Kramnik in Morocco two nights ago," he revealed. "Among his possessions were blueprints for the Navy's Domino Project." The four directors visibly reacted even as Gibbs frowned – what the hell was the Domino Project? – but David continued, his voice harsh. "According to the preliminary results of our interrogation," he said, "Kramnik had only recently come into possession of these blueprints and was scheduled to depart Morocco the following morning for parts unknown."

"How the hell did he get Domino?" Chertoff demanded. "_I_ just found out about it!"

"We're looking into that, Mister Secretary," Jenny said, "but right now, we are operating on the theory that this security breach is more extensive than we initially estimated."

"If this is true," Director Mueller of the FBI declared suddenly, "then we need to re-examine _all _of our sensitive operations, both domestic and overseas." He shook his head. "Dammit, Jen. This wasn't how I wanted to start my day."

The screens with the directors of the CIA and NSA went dark as the two cut their transmissions without even a word of goodbye. Secretary Chertoff followed suit a moment later, leaving only Director Mueller still online. He gave Jen a cautious nod before terminating his connection.

"They took that well," Eli said calmly. Jen gave him a dark look.

"You'll let me know the minute Kramnik breaks?" she asked sharply. The Mossad director smirked.

"I put my best man on it, Jennifer," he replied. "Now, if you do not mind, I need a few moments with my daughter." He turned away, gesturing for Ziva to join him. She obeyed hesitantly, trepidation visible on her face.

"Agent McGee," Director Shepard called out, "that will be all." As Tim stood to depart, she spoke again. "I don't think I need to remind you about the sensitivity of what you just heard," she said with a tight smirk. "National security trumps your need for a sequel, no matter how much you'd like to unleash Tibbs, McGregor, Tommy and Lisa on this." As McGee stammered something out, his cheeks reddening, Eli David paused and aimed a look in his direction.

"Ah," the Mossad director said with a bright smile. "Mister Gemcity." Both Tim and Ziva gave the man a wide-eyed look even as DiNozzo sighed heavily. "I would like to speak to you later," Eli said calmly. "You made several common mistakes about Mossad operations and training that need to be rectified in any sequel you might pen. Frankly, I am surprised my daughter did not correct you on them."

Tim fled.

"Why am I here?" Tony asked Jen as the two Davids began discussing something in Hebrew. "You didn't need me for this briefing." Vance interrupted them before she could respond, his expression urgent, and Shepard gave DiNozzo a look that clearly said 'give me a few minutes.' He nodded and backed away, finally sinking into one of the seats on the front row. Gibbs watched him silently for a few seconds before standing up and walking down the stairs to take the seat next to him.

"Six to one odds," he said by way of greeting, "and you still walked away. Damned fine work, DiNozzo." Tony grimaced.

"More like _limped _away," he corrected. "I was lucky, that's all. Made some probie mistakes and nearly paid for it."

"Luck often enough will save a man," Gibbs said, "if his courage holds." Tony's expression was dumbfounded.

"You did _not _just quote _The Thirteenth Warrior_ to me," he said. "To _me._" Jethro shrugged and gave him a slight smile. They were silent for a long moment.

"Is this Rivkin guy any good?" Gibbs asked softly.

"One of the best," Tony replied instantly. Jethro grunted and DiNozzo must have taken it as disbelief. "You just caught him at a bad time," he said defensively, no doubt thinking about how Rivkin had appeared in Rota. "He's taking Dana's death really hard," he continued.

"They were close?"

"He loved her," DiNozzo replied. Jethro watched as Tony's eyes were drawn to where Ziva stood and he suspected that DiNozzo was comparing his situation with that to Rivkin's. A dozen different emotions flickered across Tony's face and Gibbs instantly recognized the place DiNozzo was in from personal experience. Logically, Tony knew that it would be safer for everyone involved if he just walked away from whatever it was that he had with Ziva, but he didn't know if he could or, for that matter, if she would let him. Before he knew it, Jethro found himself looking at Jenny and thinking the same damned thing.

It was yet another reminder of how similar he and Tony were.

"They're going to make me the scapegoat for Rota," DiNozzo said abruptly. He was still watching Ziva – and she knew it based on the way she kept glancing in Tony's direction, despite her father's presence. From the way Eli David was fighting to keep a straight face, he knew it too and Jethro just couldn't wrap his brain around the fact that the director of Mossad actually seemed to approve of the relationship between his daughter and Tony.

"They're going to try," he corrected, "but I won't let them." When DiNozzo glanced in his direction, Gibbs pinned him with a look. "You did nothing wrong, Tony," he said. _"Nothing," _he repeated when DiNozzo frowned.

"Maybe it's for the best though," Tony mused aloud. "A lot of people are dead because I was trying to play secret agent." Gibbs reacted without thought and lightly smacked DiNozzo on the back of the head.

"Knock it off," he ordered. "Right now, you're the only one who thinks you screwed up." When Tony opened his mouth to argue, Gibbs continued. "For God's sake, Tony," he said, "even _the director of Mossad _thinks you did a good job." DiNozzo closed his mouth and frowned at the floor. "Anybody who says differently is an idiot," Gibbs said firmly. "And that _includes _the SecNav." Tony was silent and Jethro knew he well enough to recognize that he wasn't getting through to the younger man. "If they take your badge," he said loudly enough for Jenny and Vance to hear him, "then they're going to be getting mine too."

"I hear Mexico is nice this time of year," Tony said with a hint of his old humor.

"So is Israel," Director David declared as he and his daughter rejoined them. Her head held high, Ziva took the other seat next to Tony almost defiantly. Gibbs shook his head, realizing only after the fact that Eli was doing the same. The two of them exchanged a flat look and Jethro wondered if Ziva's father was thinking about Ari.

"My offer stands, Anthony," David announced. He too pitched his voice loud enough for Shepard to hear him. "If NCIS foolishly demands your resignation, Mossad has a place for you." He flashed a smile that was one-part malicious, one-part mischievous, and completely amused. "You will have to convert to Judaism though," he said brightly, "if you wish to make my daughter an honest woman." The sharp intake of breath and horrified looks David received from both Tony and Ziva at the statement was too much and Gibbs did the only thing he _could _do.

He laughed.


	49. Things Fall Apart, 49: Tim

**A/N: **The following has a scene with Gibbs that might be construed as slightly OOC. I blame it on the alcohol he consumes. Or maybe the wild out-of-characterness that was Season 6...

The next chapter will be the final chapter of Part 1.

* * *

**Tim**

The day of Paula Cassidy's funeral dawned bright and crisp.

It was his third funeral in as many days and, as he stood before the casket containing his friend, Tim realized that he was glad that Jeanne wasn't able to attend because of another thirty hour ER rotation she couldn't get out of. Abby had been vocal in her disapproval of any girlfriend that was not around when their significant other was laying to rest a friend no matter the perfectly valid reason, but McGee could see how uncomfortable Tony was with even the mention of La Grenouille's daughter. In DiNozzo's current state of mind, especially following the director's revelation about links between the Frog and the people who had killed both Dana and Paula, Tim wasn't sure how Tony would react if he came face-to-face with Jeanne.

And, from the way he frowned at mention of Jeanne's name, DiNozzo didn't know how he'd act either.

With no surviving family, there wasn't anyone to arrange for Paula's funeral apart from her co-workers and friends at NCIS. No one was particularly surprised that the fallen special agent was to be buried at Arlington, but when word started trickling out that Gibbs had been the driving force behind it being arranged on such short notice, McGee could see the gratitude on Tony's face slowly begin to displace the anger. The two men still weren't talking much, although they did seem slightly more comfortable in each other's presence. More telling, though, was how Gibbs interacted with the younger man now. Gone were the belittling remarks or backhanded compliments, and in their place, a genuine respect seemed to have sprung up. Palmer had jokingly commented that it was like the two men were no longer master and padawan, but equal Jedi Knights, and while McGee had avoided agreeing with Jimmy because of how uncool it made him sound, he really couldn't disagree with the comparison.

Equally interesting to Tim was how Tony and Ziva seemed to be making an active attempt to rekindle the relationship they had prior to Gibbs' return from Mexico. Oh, it wasn't immediately obvious unless you knew what you were looking for, of course. No one found them making out in the elevator, or having sex in autopsy – McGee _still _couldn't get the image of Palmer and Lee out of his brain and now he made a point of calling ahead before he ventured into Ducky's domain, no matter the reason – and the banter that had made them so much fun to watch and listen to was strangely absent, but there was a softness to how they treated one another that was new. The biggest difference was on Tony's part; sometimes, when they were all out at lunch or dinner (usually at Abby's insistence), DiNozzo would just watch Ziva when she wasn't aware, as if he were afraid that she would disappear when he looked away.

And remembering how Officer Rivkin had broken down in Tony's Rota apartment over Dana, Tim thought he knew why.

Today, Ziva had abandoned their attempts to be circumspect and was openly holding DiNozzo's hand as he watched the casket containing the remains of Paula Cassidy be lowered into the ground. Tony's face was a mask of rigid self-control, even as his eyes glittered with unshed tears, and Tim could see the muscles in his jaw bunching underneath the skin. Only Ziva's silent presence and her soothing hold on his hand seemed to be keeping him from collapsing. But all of that went away when the USMC captain in charge of the honor guard detachment offered Tony the folded triangle that had been the flag draped over Paula's casket.

His face a riot of emotions, DiNozzo turned and walked away.

Tim didn't see what happened afterward, only that Ziva rushed after Tony and Gibbs stepped forward to accept the flag without hesitation. There was no condemnation in the captain's eyes, only a sad understanding and McGee's respect for these men increased tenfold. How many times a day did they do this ceremony? How many brave men and women did they see to their final resting places? How many grieving survivors did they face but were unable to give them more than these compassionate words and a folded flag?

McGee honestly didn't know how they did it.

Neither Tony nor Ziva rejoined the funeral party, but no one seemed to think ill of them for that fact. Abby's music as they departed the gravesite was the same that she played after they laid Kate to rest, and she linked her arms with McGee's and Gibbs' while nodding in time with the rhythm. Behind them, Ducky regaled the director with the origin of modern military funeral ceremonies while Jimmy occasionally interjected questions or comments of his own. As they approached their waiting cars, Tim caught sight of Tony and Ziva already there, standing next to one another without actually touching. Even if he tried, Tim couldn't begin to identify the expression on DiNozzo's face and his step actually faltered when he caught sight of Tony's tear streaked face. For the first time, he wondered if Tony had actually ever _truly _grieved for Kate. Like Gibbs, DiNozzo had hidden behind his fury at Ziva's dead brother and, once Haswari was dead, tried to pretend that he wasn't affected by the murder of their female friend and colleague.

"Sorry about that," Tony said in a husky voice as Gibbs approached. "I just couldn't …"

"Don't worry about it, DiNozzo." Gibbs gave Ziva a tight nod before continuing on toward his car, clutching the triangle of cloth so tightly that his knuckles were white. "Happens to the best of us."

Two hours later, they were all at O'Hara's and McGee watched as Tony nursed his beer but didn't actually drink much of it. Ziva sat next to Tony, discreetly watching him while also pretending to drink, but she too was mostly silent. The director did not stay long (for which Tim was grateful), and both Michelle and Cassie vanished soon afterward. Abby and Palmer were at another table, listening to one of Ducky's stories with rapt attention – a sure sign of drunkenness if there ever was one especially as Doctor Mallard seemed to be telling them about the migratory patterns of … penguins? That couldn't be right … – while Gibbs was drinking bourbon like it was water.

On his way back from the bathroom some time later, Tim stopped in front of the wall of honor, noting without any surprise that three new photos – Paula, Jim and Rick – had joined the other faces of the fallen there. His eyes instinctively sought out Kate's photo and he spent several long moments staring at her, wishing for just a few more minutes with his friend. He wasn't even aware that Tony had joined him until DiNozzo reached forward and touched the picture.

"One of these days," he said with a smile that didn't entirely reach his eyes, "I'm going to replace this crappy picture with the one of her in a wet tee shirt."

"I think Gibbs might actually kill you if you did," McGee replied. Tony chuckled.

_"After _he made sure to get a good look at it," he said. "I need a ride to Ziva's apartment, Probie," DiNozzo said a moment later. "That jackass, Bashan, needs her at the Embassy right this very minute to show him how to tie his shoes or open a bottle of pickles or something."

"Okay," Tim replied before glancing at the table where the remaining members of their 'party' were still sitting. He frowned at the obvious inebriated states of Abby and Palmer, not to mention Gibbs' hunched over wounded bear impersonation.

"I already called the director," Tony said in response to the look. "She's going to take Gibbs home."

"Bet Colonel Mann will _love _that," McGee mumbled. DiNozzo gave him a sidelong look.

"Who?" he asked. Tim grinned.

"Long story," he replied. "I'll tell you on the way to Ziva's." He nodded toward Abby and Palmer. "And them?"

"Ducky said he's got them taken care of." Tony smiled. "He promised to take pictures of them if they do anything really stupid."

"Well," McGee said with a broad grin, "even if they don't, I'm going to tell Abby that they did."

"Now why would you do something like that to poor little Abby?" Tony asked with a feigned look of shock.

"Because _she's _the one who keeps giving Ziva ideas about how to torture me for _Deep Six_," Tim admitted. Almost instantly, he cursed softly when he remembered who he was standing next to. He wasn't surprised to find DiNozzo smirking at him.

"Probie," the older man said with a flash of teeth that was either a smile or a threat, "they haven't _begun _to torture you yet."

Tony ended up having to half carry his old boss to the director's car once she arrived, especially since Gibbs wouldn't let go of the folded flag and had downed at least a full bottle of rotgut that smelled like it should only be used as paint thinner. The older man's nonstop monologue along the way about the virtues of redheads over blondes or brunettes actually caused Tim to laugh, although his amusement vanished a moment later.

"Did I ever tell you about my Shannon?" Gibbs asked Tony suddenly, his voice slurring only slightly. "She was my … everything."

DiNozzo reacted as if he'd been slapped.

"No, Boss," he said carefully. "You've never talked about her."

"It hurts too much to think about them sometimes," Gibbs declared before bumping his head on the door of the director's car. He abruptly grabbed Tony's shirt. "Don't be like me, Tony. Promise me you won't be like me."

"Boss…"

"Promise me, dammit!" Gibbs' eyes were wild, almost feverish. "I don't want you to look back and wish you'd done everything differently, Tony! I want you to actually be happy!" His grip on DiNozzo's shirt tightened. "Promise me!"

"I promise." DiNozzo looked like he didn't know whether to cry or vomit, and Tim noticed the look that the director was giving the two men. Never before had he seen a person as emotionally distraught as Jennifer Shepard was in that moment.

So, McGee looked away.

"Shannon would have liked you, Tony," Tim heard Gibbs murmur, "but I swear, I'd have shot you if you even looked twice at Kelly."

"I'm sure you would, Boss. Watch your head."

"I'll take care of him, Tony," Director Shepard said softly once DiNozzo had maneuvered Gibbs into the car and secured the seat belt. Tony nodded.

"Well," he remarked in a voice so calm it had to be forced, _"that _was surreal."

"You okay?" Tim asked.

"Yeah." DiNozzo was silent for a moment. "Just something he said … reminded me of what Mike told me…"

"About Dana." It was a guess, but Tony nodded. The wind picked up, suddenly reminding Tim that they were entering November in Washington, and he shivered.

The sound of Abby and Palmer singing some sort of Scottish drinking song drew their attention to where Ducky had parked his Morgan and, without giving it much thought, Tim grabbed his phone and began recording a quick video of the moment, chuckling softly as he watched the forensic scientist and the autopsy gremlin clamber into the car at the doctor's direction. Mallard gave the two a long head shake complete with a quick glance skyward as if he was seeking strength from on high before climbing into the car and starting the engine. Abby and Palmer continued to sing … if it could actually be called that.

"If I didn't know better," Tony remarked with a grin, "I'd think that Paula was looking out for you, Probie." He chuckled. "You couldn't ask for better blackmail material." He gave Tim another smile. "Better be careful with it, though," he said. "Abby can still kill you and hide the evidence."

"True." McGee shrugged. "Might be worth it just to see her face though."

"You're a braver man than I am, Gunga Din," DiNozzo declared. "Any chance I can drive the Porsche?"

"Over my dead body." Tim snickered. "Which will probably be tomorrow after I show this to Abby."

"Make sure you leave it to me in your will," Tony said as he slid into the passenger seat, pausing to admire the upholstery. "So tell me who this Colonel Mann is you mentioned earlier," he ordered once McGee started the car.

They laughed about Gibbs' relationship woes on the way to Ziva's apartment, with Tony expressing loud approval over Abby's 'sticking it to the Mann' refrain. Both of them avoided Gibbs' earlier remarks or DiNozzo's reaction at the cemetery and stuck to safer topics, like global proliferation of nuclear weapons or how to mix religion and politics. By the time they arrived outside Ziva's apartment, Tim had worked up the courage to ask the question that had been bothering him for a week.

"How's the IA investigation going?" It had not escaped _anyone's _notice that Tony had been spending a lotof time behind closed doors with Deputy Director Vance. The current 'worst case scenario' rumor making the rounds in the bullpen was that DiNozzo was refusing to cooperate and the internal affairs board was threatening to throw him in prison for obstruction.

"It's going," Tony replied. He shrugged. "Whatever happens, happens," he said calmly, as if his entire career was not on the line. "Thanks for the ride, McGee," he added as he climbed out of the Porsche. He grinned and, for just a moment, it was like the old Tony DiNozzo was back. "And remember," he said, "to leave this lovely piece of German engineering to me in your will if you're actually going to show Abby that video."

"I think I'd rather leave it to Ziva," McGee retorted, "or maybe my sister." Tony blinked.

"You have a sister? Why didn't you tell me you had a sister?"

"Goodnight, Tony."

He was still smiling when he arrived home.

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**j: **I don't know what to tell you. Pretty much all of Tony's issues with Ziva were rooted in a single misconception and it is canon that he will go out of his way to avoid conflict by sucking up any insult directed at him. With Gibbs, there are obviously other issues at work and, as hopefully indicated by this chapter, things are _not _completely back to normal even though the various parties involved are making a conscious effort to get things back to something approximating normalcy. And how exactly was he supposed to act given that his actual boss (Director Shepard), his boss' number two (Leon Vance), and Mossad Director David were present in MTAC? If he acted like an immature punk in front of those three, that'd be a great way to ruin his career...

As to the whole season 6 "Tiva" thing, I pretty much gave up on the Ziva character (and the show too, for that matter) thanks to how utterly _pathetic _she (and the rest of the characters for that matter, but _especially _her) was written all year. Mr. Brennan _utterly _ruined both NCIS and the Ziva character this year for me. _My _version of the character isn't the ... whackjob that season 6 turned her into...


	50. Things Fall Apart, 50: Tony

**A/N: **This is the final chapter of Part 1. It takes place several days after the previous chapter, which puts it around two to three weeks after the Team came home from Rota (arranging a funeral at Arlington takes some time, even for Gibbs.)

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**Tony**

It was the moment of truth.

Despite the size of the director's office, Tony felt like the walls were closing in on him and he wanted some space to breath. The two people staring at him – Leon Vance and Jennifer Shepard – didn't exactly help matters much, not with the way their eyes were studying him like he was a strange new bug under a microscope, and the disembodied voice echoing from the phone speaker – Eli David – only made it worse. He knew what they wanted to hear, knew what they wanted him to do, but he didn't know if _he _wanted the same thing, regardless of whether this was a career-making assignment or not.

"We have a limited window of opportunity for this mission to have any chance of success," David announced calmly. "I have assets in place now who are standing by for the green light to implement phase one."

"Are you sure there isn't another way?" Tony asked. The mission proposal they'd just given him had sounded more like the spiel a used car salesman offered to unsuspecting dupes out to buy their first vehicle. In his opinion, there had been too many 'maybes' and 'we thinks' and 'hopefullys' in it for this op to be less than a pipe dream.

Boiled down to its constituent parts, this entire operation was a long-term undercover mission with the sole objective of infiltrating this mysterious organization run by the Russian ghost, with success predicated on the notion that the only man who knew Tony's identity was Dmitri Kramnik, currently in Mossad's clutches. Viggo Drantyev (or whatever the hell his real name was) had dropped completely off the grid in the last month, vanishing so completely that it was highly probable he was buried in a shallow grave somewhere in the Urals since he had clearly been compromised. With him gone and Kramnik in one of Mossad's deep, dark holes, an opportunity had presented itself that couldn't be wasted.

Tony just wished it wasn't _him _that they wanted to use.

On one hand, he was immensely proud that they thought so highly of his talents, but on the other, he had to wonder what it said about him that the talents they were impressed with was the ability to lie and deceive. Yes, he was good at pretending to be someone he wasn't – he'd been doing that for pretty much his entire damned life after all – but what they were asking him to do … not only was there a high possibility that he could be killed, but none of his friends would ever find out. He would be expected to just drop everything, to walk away from all that he had worked so hard to rebuild, to keep the truth an absolute secret from the people he trusted the most in order to protect them. How could anyone do that? How could _he _do that?

"No," Director David said in response to his question, "there is not." His voice patterns changed slightly, moderating and suddenly sounding almost paternal though DiNozzo knew it to be an act. Ziva had often complained about how easily her father was able to manipulate her through this very façade. "You have seen the projections, Anthony," Eli said calmly. "You know how dangerous these people are."

"This is a strictly _voluntary _assignment," Director Shepard added, though from the way she spoke and her body language, Tony knew that refusing it would have consequences of their own. His respect for her had hit an all time low following Tim's revelation that the director had waited until _after _McGee had gotten involved with the Benoit girl to read him into the La Grenouille investigation. Tony just couldn't understand the kind of obsession that would allow someone to use a person like McGee in the way she was.

He wasn't exactly keen on being effectively blackmailed into this damned assignment either.

"The operational timeframe is six months to a year," Deputy Director Vance pointed out carefully. Of the three people arrayed against him, Vance was the only one who actually seemed to understand why Tony was hesitating, although that really wasn't a surprise since he was also the only one with a stable family. "If we haven't made any progress in three months," the deputy director suggested, "we'll pull you in and re-evaluate."

"Three months?" DiNozzo blew out a breath and backed away from the three as he gave it serious thought. Ninety days wasn't that bad. Even if meant no contact with the people he considered his family. But this was the only way he could get justice for Paula and Dana and Jim and Rick and Nastya and all the others. He nodded. "Okay," he decided. "I'll do it, but on one condition. I pick my handler."

"It cannot be Ziva," Shepard said flatly. Tony sighed. He'd hoped they wouldn't say that, even though he had expected it. Mentally, he moved on to option number two.

"I know," he lied with a straight face before looking directly at the phone. "Michael Rivkin. Or I walk."

"Officer Rivkin _is_ available for this mission," David announced after a moment of silence. Shepard and Vance exchanged quick glances, with the former nodding slightly. Vance pursed his lips – according to the original mission proposal, _he _was to have final say about the identity of Tony's primary contact with them – but shrugged slightly, as if to say he had no problems with DiNozzo's demand. Shepard smiled, a gleam suddenly appearing in her eyes. For some reason, she reminded Tony of a hungry lioness preparing to pounce upon an unsuspecting gazelle.

"Then this mission is a go," she said with a sharp nod to both of her colleagues. David began speaking softly in Hebrew and Tony tried not to think about what was going to happen to protect his cover.

Amit Hadar was about to shoot Dmitri Kramnik in the head. The Russian couldn't threaten the mission if he was dead, after all.

Vance headed for the door without further comment and, in less than an hour, the internal affairs investigation he was ostensibly heading at the behest of the SecNav would recommend that Anthony DiNozzo be demoted and never again be assigned to an active investigative team. Even if all of the evidence arrayed against him was purely circumstantial, Tony's 'refusal to cooperate' would be judged as sufficient to doubt his complete innocence. To avoid further prosecution, DiNozzo's resignation would be tendered effective immediately.

And in three days, he would become Tomás D'Agostino, an American born of Spanish and Italian parents who had taken over the family gunrunning business after his father died but wanted to expand into Europe. He was, admittedly, a minor fish in a big pond, but his links inside the U.S. military were extensive which would be quite attractive to the organization he was trying to infiltrate.

"It is done," Eli announced a moment later. His voice once more became soft, paternal. "I am sorry that we have to do it this way, Anthony," he said, the subtext of his statement coming through loud and clear. _Ziva_. Tony flinched.

"I'd like to look over the mission packet again," he said quickly to take his mind off of how she was going to react to this. It figured: they were just now getting back to what they were before Gibbs came back and now, Tony was the one who had a secret that would drive a wedge between them. He sighed as he took a seat at the conference table and began studying the prepared documents in front of him for a fifth time; maybe this was for the best. Ziva could do better than him, after all, and every woman he seemed to get close to died so this was probably safer for her in the long run.

Vance returned a mere twenty minutes later, his face troubled. He whispered something to Director Shepard, something too soft for Tony to make. One word _did _reach his ears though: Gibbs.

"Can you sell this, DiNozzo?" Shepard asked. He grimaced.

"We better hope so," Tony replied as he closed the file and handed it to Vance. Shepard narrowed her eyes before gesturing toward the false resignation letter on her desk. DiNozzo stared at it for a heartbeat before exhaling and scribbling his signature at the bottom. "Here we go," he mumbled under his breath before closing his eyes and focusing on all of the abuse his parents had heaped upon him while he was growing up. He thought about how he felt when his athletic career ended, and the rage he'd experienced when he looked down on Kate's lifeless body once the shock wore off. The sharp, bitter taste of fury filled him when he reflected on what it felt like when Gibbs came back and threw him aside without even a word. Opening his eyes, he scowled at Jennifer Shepard and let himself hate her for what she was doing to Timothy McGee.

"I'm ready," he snapped as he ripped his badge from his belt and – like every other truly great maverick cop in the history of cinema – slapped it down on her desk. His pistol joined the shield and Tony stormed from the office, slamming the door behind him so hard that he suspected that they could hear it in autopsy.

His old team was assembled in the bullpen, their eyes locked on the door leading to the director's office. The moment Tony emerged, he could see Gibbs' face abruptly contort with rage and knew that he had successfully sold it. Without commenting, Gibbs stomped up the stairs and blew by DiNozzo without a word, vanishing inside Shepard's office and slamming the door even harder than Tony did. Barely a second later, the sound of raised voices – mostly Gibbs – could be heard.

"What's going on?" Abby demanded once DiNozzo reached their area, her eyes wide and pooling with moisture.

"I'm out of here, Abs," Tony replied. "Effective immediately." The Goth began to cry – which made DiNozzo feel exactly one inch tall – even as McGee collapsed in his chair, shock written on his face. Abby sprang forward, wrapping her arms around him so tightly that Tony couldn't breathe.

"No no no no no," she began repeating, a plaintive tone to her voice that made the moment even worse. This was twice that he was leaving her, once more than Gibbs, and for the first time in his life, Tony wished he hadn't done something better than his old mentor.

"Why?" Ziva asked calmly. Outwardly, she appeared fine, but Tony knew her well enough to realize that she was on the verge of letting her temper take control.

"The IA investigation wasn't satisfied with my answers," he told her simply. "They recommended I be demoted and stuck working cold cases or doing admin jobs." Tony shrugged. "So I quit instead."

"I knew it," McGee mumbled. His shock was dwindling rapidly and fury was beginning to set in. "I knew it!" he almost snarled.

"DiNozzo." Gibbs' voice came from behind and Tony awkwardly pried Abby's arms from around him. She latched onto Tim and DiNozzo hated Director Shepard a tiny bit more. "I'm going to fight this," Gibbs growled. He shot a look that could ignite iron in the direction of the director's office. "Whatever you need, it's yours."

"Let it go, Gibbs," Tony said softly. More than anything else in his life, DiNozzo knew he had to sell this. "Just … let it go."

"I can't," Gibbs replied. "You deserve better than this." He pulled his badge from his belt and tossed it onto his desk. "Like I said," Gibbs declared ominously, "if you go, I go."

"Think of the Probies." Tony forced a smile on his face, knowing it looked more like a grimace. "I need to get away," he said carefully, hating himself a little more each second. "After Moscow … I'm not the same person I used to be and … I need this, Boss." To his surprise, Gibbs visibly swallowed and looked down. He appeared lost. "I'm trying not to be you, Jethro," Tony said a moment later, consciously using the name he had never before been allowed to speak. Gibbs nodded and offered his hand.

"You were the best agent I ever trained," he declared loudly. That the director had once been Gibbs' probie was common knowledge and Tony smiled at the implicit compliment. He accepted the hand.

"Thanks, Boss."

Once more, Abby threw herself at him and hugged him tightly. She didn't say a word as she released him and went directly into Gibbs' arms. Tim abandoned propriety and actually hugged Tony also. Michelle followed suit, her eyes moist, and Cassie simply offered her hand. Ducky – who had evidently joined them while Gibbs was talking – patted Tony on the back and made some inarticulate sound of sadness while Palmer – who had accompanied Doctor Mallard – followed Cassie's lead.

Which left Ziva.

She stood slightly apart from the rest of them, her eyes clear and her face showing no hint of the sadness that the rest of them were showing. As he approached, something flickered in her eyes and Tony realized it was hurt. He made a sudden decision then, one he knew would probably infuriate the three people who had just harangued him into this stupid mission. Without warning, he wrapped his arms around Ziva and lowered his mouth to her ear.

"I'll see you around … _Sophie_," he whispered to her, hoping she would understand what he was trying to tell her. When he pulled back, he saw comprehension flare in her eyes. Her face concealed from the view of the others by his, she gave him a discreet nod and an even more subtle smile. "I still owe you for Moscow," he added, his voice just loud enough to be heard by the others. Ziva smiled.

"And I will collect some day," she replied in the same tone that she had told Gibbs something similar so many months ago. For all he knew, it could be the exact words. Without warning, Ziva leaned forward and captured his lips with hers. "Stay safe," she murmured to him when she finally pulled back. "And remember … _I was right_." The words spurred a memory and he nodded his understanding of what she was trying to tell him as he extricated himself from her embrace. Once he entered the elevator, a flicker of mischief caused him to pause and looked directly at Gibbs.

"You'll do," he said with a grin.

"Semper fi, Tony," his old boss replied. "Semper fi."

A moment later, the doors closed.

THE END of **PART 1: THINGS FALL APART**  
To Be Continued in **PART 2: THE WIDENING GYRE**

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I am planning on putting Part 2 here instead of creating a 'new' story ... although I cannot give you a schedule since I am currently jobless and actively seeking new employment (which kinda sucks, even here in Oklahoma.) Part 2 is fully plotted out and looks to be 40 chapters instead of the 50 of Part 1, although I think it will be about the same length, word count wise.


	51. Pt 2, The Widening Gyre, 1: Ziva

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: ** AU Season 5. References to canon episodes might be made but do not expect me to go into much detail about how they changed unless they directly apply to the story. Expect implied sex, explicit violence, harsh language, bad decisions, unlucky breaks, and butt-kicking action. If you dislike the Tony/Ziva pairing, the rest of this story is going to be hard to stomach for you ... although these are _not _the same screwed up characters from the wildly overhyped and ultimately disappointing Season 6 ... they're screwed up in other ways...

And don't expect a regular posting schedule. Still looking for work, planning a move, trying to write a book, etc. so work on this is slowed. Consider this a hint or a taste...

* * *

**Ziva**

The postcard arrived on a Friday.

It was a tiny thing, buried between the electric bill and a letter from her car insurance company informing her that they were cancelling her account because of her poor driving record over the last six months (which frankly wasn't _her _fault), and Ziva did not even notice the thin card until it fluttered to the floor of her apartment. She picked it up absently without giving it more than a second glance. Today had been difficult and she was more tired than she had any right to be.

Nearly eight months had passed since Tony walked out of her life, vanishing into the undercover operation she suspected her father was behind. A conveniently timed telephone call from Amit Hadar had prevented Ziva from pursuing DiNozzo when he walked away, and by the time she managed to escape from the Navy Yard, Tony had already disappeared. He left behind a handwritten note ostensibly explaining his decision to go away for a while, to 'discover' himself (whatever that meant), but the phrasing of the missive was too formal, too … practiced to have actually come from Tony. A veteran of numerous covert operations, Ziva recognized the hand of Mossad behind this entire charade and it made her hate her countrymen just a little bit.

Less than a week after his departure, she began receiving new assignments from her father that took her away from NCIS, sometimes for months at a time. At first, Ziva had hoped she was going to be tasked to back up Tony, but instead, she found herself given 'housekeeping' duties as she conducted molehunts inside the D.C. Embassy. Eventually, she uncovered five different traitors within Bashan's sphere of influence, including his principal bodyguard, Sarah. Two of the traitors had been killed while being apprehended, and the other three had been turned over to Mossad for … interrogation.

A flashing light drew Ziva's attention to her answering machine and she sighed softly when she realized who it probably was. John Carson was a local homicide detective Ziva had met during a case shortly after Tony's departure who had kept in touch with her after she saved his life. The detective made no attempt to hide the fact that he was attracted to her and Ziva had lost track of how many times Carson had asked her out. Even though part of Tony's "note" had told her not to wait for him and to try and find some happiness, Ziva had consistently turned down Carson's invitations … until today. She had no plans beyond for it to progress beyond a drink or two and hopefully some pleasant conversation but given her previously rejections, she suspected this message was a call to confirm that she was actually going to show up tonight. Even with Carson very much aware that there was _zero _chance of having sex with her, Ziva still felt like this was betraying Tony somehow, which had the side effect of making her second-guess everything she did all day. Frustrated over her unusual mood, she ducked into the shower and let the hot water wash away her tension.

Today had also marked the one month anniversary of Jeanne Benoit's death and Tim had been alternately grief stricken and short-tempered all day. He had yet to replace the Porsche destroyed in the explosion that claimed Benoit's life and his rental had simply not started when they left for the day, which led to him needing a ride home where Ziva suspected he planned to get thoroughly and completely drunk. Tim's sister was already there, however, and took her brother under her wing. Abby had shown up just as Ziva was leaving, a forced smile on her face as she vanished into the McGee apartment.

Her hair was still dripping when Ziva wandered into the living room and began to absently pick through her mail. The postcard was an image of a beautiful image of the Matterhorn. When she flipped it over, her breath caught at Tony's distinctive handwriting and the message he'd scrawled there.

_You were right! The Alps are beautiful!_

The words were a code they had jokingly developed over beers and pizza back when Gibbs was sulking in Mexico and had only come into being when Ziva expressed her general contempt for how foolish Jean Paul and Sophie Ranier had been. Naturally, Tony had been curious about how _she _would do it, which led to these simple but effective sentences. The first part was the action line and took the place of a more obvious cry for help like 'wish you were here' that an amateur might use. Mention of the Alps served two functions: first, it identified what part of the world Tony was in – Europe – while also potentially confusing anyone who happened to intercept this message. To anyone unfamiliar with their code, it would appear as if the sender was arranging a contact point there which would result in them dispatching assets to monitor that location. If their resources were limited, it reduced the number of potential threats covering Tony.

With a quick glance at the time, Ziva took a moment to consider the best way to proceed before sweeping quickly into her bedroom. She spent several minutes rooting through the dresser for a specific set of exercise clothes that went into her gym bag. Another set, equally distinctive, joined the first before she donned a pair of cycling shorts and a sports bra. Quickly braiding her hair, she slipped her shoes on, grabbed her wallet and keys, and left the apartment.

She spent a solid ten minutes weaving through the traffic and generally driving like a lunatic in order to shake any potential pursuers she might have. Satisfied that she was not under surveillance, Ziva then headed straight to a local high-end gym she had joined during her most recent winter in Washington (ostensibly because she did not like running in the snow, although the truth had more to do with the person she was waiting for.) The parking lot was filling up and she bit her lower lip when she did not see her target.

A moment later, a brand new Lamborghini pulled into the parking lot and Ziva relaxed. The driver was a wealthy Hispanic woman who looked just enough like Ziva that she could serve as a double. They had spoken only a few times, each time about trivial nonsense, and Ziva had done enough discreet research into Maria Sanchez to know that she completely loathed the woman. Apart from vague similarities in appearance, they had absolutely nothing in common: Sanchez was a rich snob who looked down on anyone who earned less than a million dollars a year … which Ziva found ironic since it was Sanchez's _husband _who was the breadwinner in their family. The woman was little more than a trophy wife who would likely be set aside the moment she started to show her age.

After concealing the postcard inside a carefully chosen paperback book that she then left on the passenger seat, Ziva followed the woman into the gym, not bothering to sign in at the front desk while smiling at the ridiculously attractive idiot who postured behind the cash register. When Sanchez entered the women's locker room, Ziva waited for exactly three minutes before following suit, her gym bag clutched tightly in one hand. Sanchez was already in her designer exercise gear – the yellow one – and did not even bother nodding as she pranced out to the gym where she would spend the next hour and a half flirting with men five to ten years younger than she and working up a light sweat.

The locker room was mostly empty as Ziva entered, so no one saw her as she walked directly to Sanchez's small locker. It took mere seconds to break in and she found the items she was looking for – the keys to the Lamborghini – immediately. Smirking slightly, Ziva shut the locker and then dug a suit of clothes identical to those currently being worn by Sanchez from her bag. She donned them, pushed the bag into her own locker, and calmly walked out of the building.

"Have a nice day, ma'am," the posturing moron said with a vacuous smile on his face. Ziva did not bother to respond.

The Lamborghini roared to life and Ziva carefully pulled out of the parking lot. She merged into the traffic heading west, checking the mirrors for suspicious-looking vehicles. Finding none, she then drove directly to a self-storage facility nearly fifteen minutes away. Mossad maintained a specific unit here for their American-based operatives that was big enough to park the Lamborghini in. On Monday morning, one of Bashan's men would check the unit with standing orders to destroy anything within. It made Ziva smile, knowing that Sanchez would be frantic over the loss of her beloved car.

On the other side of this lot, Ziva maintained a much smaller unit that she rented under a false name. After making sure it had not been tampered with, she opened it and ducked inside. The Ducati she had ridden in Spain was still there, along with several locked cases containing various necessities. One of them had clothes, and Ziva quickly changed into more appropriate riding gear before digging out an average-sized backpack. From another of the boxes, she extracted a half-dozen passports, credit cards and a large amount of cash. Despite the situation, she smiled at the memory of watching the first Jason Bourne movie with Tony; he had not been even remotely surprised at her revelation that she had several drop points with equipment similar to what the title character of the movie found in the Swiss bank.

She pushed the bike out of the storage unit and quickly double-checked that she had everything she needed. Although there were dozens of weapons inside her storage unit as well as a case full of plastic explosives, Ziva took only a single, easily concealed Walther PPK. The serial numbers on this throwaway were long since removed, destroyed beyond even Abby's ability to retrieve, and Ziva had no plans on keeping it any longer than she needed to.

The Ducati's engine growled nicely and Ziva straddled it, pausing only momentarily to stroke the fuel tank affectionately. As far as she knew, only Amit Hadar was aware that she had this bike shipped to Washington, and none of her NCIS team had ever seen it. The bike was a guilty pleasure of hers, one she used whenever the stress of the job was too much. She did not have the opportunity to ride it much, perhaps twice a month if she was lucky, but it never failed to improve her mood.

It was early Saturday morning when she reached Boston and her entire body ached from the seven hour trip upon the motorcycle. She had paid cash each time she refilled the bike's gas tank, and was running almost entirely on sugar and caffeine herself. This was the second half of the alert system she had set up with Tony, although this part had been developed when they secretly met for the last time, two days after his 'resignation' from NCIS. Ziva had joked that they were acting like illicit lovers having a tryst when they met at a Holiday Inn in Virginia for one last night and, in between bouts of sex so intensely passionate it still made her toes curl, DiNozzo had explained the generalities of his mission. Although she trusted Michael to watch his back, she had still insisted on setting up a back-up system in case things went bad.

She tried not to think about how the postcard meant things _had _gone bad.

Parking the bike just outside the U.S. Post Office where she maintained a dead drop box, Ziva got off the Ducati and spent a few seconds stretching the kinks out of her body. This early in the morning, there were not very many pedestrians or vehicles on the street, and she knew that if she _looked _like she was in a hurry, it would draw more attention than if she simply acted normally. Satisfied that the small building was not under surveillance, she ducked inside and walked directly to her P.O. Box. Inside was another postcard, this one with a picture of the Frankfurt skyline upon it. There was no message, only an address she quickly committed to memory. The handwriting was also different, implying that Tony had paid close attention to her advice and tricked someone else into writing and mailing this card. Only the presence of a few identifying marks on the card – all of the A's had the open spaces filled in, and the O's each had a single, vertical line down the center of them – allowed her to believe the this was truly from Tony.

She stuffed the postcard into a pocket and rode the bike to the other side of the city where she ducked into another self-storage facility rented under yet another false identity. This one was more high tech than the previous one, with a climate controlled interior that allowed her to keep some functional computer equipment inside as well as a change of clothes and a cot. After parking the bike inside and spending several more minutes stretching, Ziva booted up the laptop and used one of the false identities she had carried from Washington to book a flight from Boston to Quebec for later today. She took a two hour nap on the cot before getting up and changing clothes once more. The backpack from D.C. she exchanged for a more suitable travelling bag that could be carried onto the plane without questions; three different changes of clothes were carefully folded and stored in the bag and she emerged from the storage unit looking almost like a different person. As much as she wanted to be armed for the next stage of the trip, she left the Walther (and her two knives) behind since it would thoroughly defeat her purpose if she popped up on the radar of airport security for carrying weapons of any type.

A taxi summoned to the storage unit from a nearby payphone carried her to the airport and Ziva spent the next hour or so in line to get her ticket while trying to discreetly watch for any intelligence agents who might be present. She passed through customs without any difficulties, which gave her the opportunity to get something substantial to eat from one of the restaurants inside Terminal B. With a full stomach, Ziva then went looking for an adequate prepaid cellphone at the wireless provider nearby. The proprietor attempted to convince her of the necessity of a long-term plan, but she reached a compromise with him: he would shut up and she would give him money.

There was one layover in New York for almost three hours, during which time Ziva spent as little time in the main concourse as possible in a likely vain attempt to keep her face from showing up on the video cameras. This gave her the opportunity to relax in one of the restaurants inside the airport and she made a calculated effort to look like a businesswoman who was worried about some forthcoming proposal. Only two men tried to bother her – one was a balding man with a combover who was more interested in staring at her chest than her face, while the second was a slightly overweight man who simply wanted to know the time. The first she sent away with a scathing remark about his hair, while the second received a smile and the answer to his question.

Once in Quebec, Ziva changed clothes in a fairly luxurious bathroom before proceeding to a nearby counter and purchasing an immediate one-way ticket to London with a second of the false identities. She paid an exorbitant amount since it was not booked well in advance. When she decided – on the "spur of the moment," of course – to upgrade to first class, the young woman behind the counter rolled her eyes and added even more charges to the fee. Ziva smiled and casually handed her the gold American Express card that came with this particular identity. She then headed for the multi-purpose store where she spent several hundred dollars replacing her wardrobe and buying essentials. The girl at the ticket counter looked exasperated when Ziva returned and checked in another bag … but then, that was entirely the point with this identity.

Four hours later, the plane departed Canada and the real work began.


	52. The Widening Gyre, 2: Ziva

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: **See bottom for any review replies.

* * *

**Ziva**

London was miserable when she arrived.

The sky was gray and overcast, with heavy sheets of rain falling from the fat clouds and beating a steady drumbeat on the roof. Still yawning, Ziva kept to the center of the group leaving her plane in order to minimize the chances of being captured by cameras. Her neck ached from the long trip, and her bladder felt so full she was afraid it was about to burst. Despite the growing need to visit a bathroom, she maintained her low profile and retrieved her luggage from the carousel before falling into step behind two heavyset women in their late fifties. Both chatted rapidly in American English and discussed all of the fantastic tourist sites they planned to visit while in London. Ziva did her best to use them as walking, talking shields from the cameras until they passed a public restroom.

She carefully locked the stall door once she was inside the restroom and quickly relieved herself before placing the suitcase atop the toilet and examining her options. With a wry smirk, Ziva changed into a set of clothes that she knew Abby would approve of and then spent several long minutes adding dark make-up to her features that gave her the distinctive appearance of what Abby would call a 'poser.' Nodding with satisfaction, she then checked the suitcase for any sign of tampering or bugs but found nothing that should not already be there.

From Heathrow, Ziva took the Express to Paddington Station before transferring to another train, this time heading to St Pancras where she could board a Eurostar that would carry her to Paris through the Chunnel. No one gave her outrageous appearance a second glance, which she took to mean that they were accustomed to dealing with her 'types.' She paid for everything in cash and, just prior to boarding the train that would take her to France, spent several long minutes in a restroom destroying the passports and credits cards of the identities she had already used.

She managed to avoid attracting much attention on the two hour and twenty-five minute train ride to Paris by pretending to sleep the entire time. Upon arrival, she once again altered her appearance slightly, though that mostly consisted of washing most of the make-up off her face and donning a jacket over the surprisingly risqué shirt. Using yet another of the false IDs, she purchased a ticket to Frankfurt and, twenty minutes later, was racing toward the German city. It took over six hours to arrive, including an hour and a half layover in Köln, but she arrived at the Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof without incident just as the sun was beginning to sink below the horizon. Ziva shook her head slightly – she was not sure if it was Sunday, Monday or Tuesday at the moment – and set out in search of a rental car.

Her knowledge of the German city was rudimentary at best, so she did not locate the address written on the second postcard until nearly midnight. It was a small, second-hand electronics repair shop tucked next to several larger buildings that effectively concealed it from view. Unless someone was actively looking for this shop, they probably would not even notice it.

Using a map of Frankfurt as cover, Ziva spent a good five minutes simply observing the shop. That it was currently occupied despite the lateness of the hour was immediately obvious, but more interesting to her were the carefully concealed satellite dishes upon the roof of the structure. She made a careful note of the phone number on the front window before starting her car and driving away.

Several minutes later, she found a suitable pay phone and dialed the number. She let it ring three times before hanging up and redialing. She hung up after four rings and then redialed once more. This time, she let it ring twice before hanging up. Mere seconds later, the payphone began to ring.

_"I need security work done," _Ziva said in Russian the moment she picked up.

_"__Sprechen Sie Deutsch_?_" _a very familiar voice asked and Ziva smiled before returning the handset to the cradle. She started the engine of the small car and returned to the electronics shop, opting to take a more circuitous route just to be safe. As expected, a man was standing outside, waiting for her.

"Hello, Michael," she said once she climbed out of the car. He jerked his head toward the shop and whistled sharply. Officer Livni – it was _still _difficult to call him by his first name – materialized out of the shadows and slid into the driver's seat. Without bothering to ask permission, he started the car and backed into the street.

"Do I want to know why you are here?" Michael asked once Ziva had joined him inside the shop. She blinked in mild surprise at the sight of Moshe Harari behind the counter; he paled at sight of her and rapidly backpedaled, limping only slightly.

"Is it safe to talk?" Ziva asked. Rivkin gave her a look that actually seemed hurt before leading her into the back part of his shop. She gave the various computers scattered around a quick glance – it appeared that they were actually doing repairs to maintain their cover – but offered no additional comment until Michael flipped the switch on what looked like a small Ham radio.

_"It is now,"_ he said, sliding instantly into Hebrew. _"Why are you here, Ziva?" _he demanded.

"Tony," she replied calmly. _"He contacted me … how isn't important. I know he is here and needs my help."_

_"He arranged back-up without telling me," _Michael mused with a growing smile. He glanced away, nodding. _"Well done, Tony._ _Well done."_

_"Michael!"_ Ziva snapped, impatience and worry giving her words a sharp edge. _"I need to know what is going on!"_

_"That makes two of us," _Rivkin replied. He gestured toward a nearby chair even as he began to pace. It was a new habit of his, something she did not recall him doing before, and it worried her immensely. She watched him carefully but took the seat. _"For the last two weeks," _he began.

_"Three," _Moshe corrected from a dark corner. He was fiddling with some sort of radio transceiver while holding earphones up to his left ear.

_"For the last three weeks," _Michael resumed, nodding quickly to Harari, _"we haven't been able to make contact with _Tony." He waved off Ziva's instinctive reaction. _"We know he's still alive – Ari has had visual confirmation of that – but we just can't get close enough to him to do _anything!" Rivkin grimaced. _"He's under constant surveillance, his room is bugged and even our dead-drop sites have been compromised."_

_"Is he in any danger?" _Ziva demanded. Michael gave her a flat look.

_"Of course he is," _he retorted, _"but we don't think they know he's undercover." _A flicker of remorse crossed his face and Ziva knew she was not going to like what he said next. _"Isaac Chayat saw to that." _Rivkin frowned and wrung his hands, as if they were wet and he was trying to dry them with an invisible towel. _"Officer Hadar sent Chayat in to … he sent Chayat in as a dupe."_

_"Tony_ _killed him," _Ziva guessed, her mouth suddenly dry. Having an undercover operative kill a known intelligence agent went a long way toward establishing a cover identity. Months ago, when she had been saddled with the incompetent Chayat, Ziva had recommended to Amit that they use the fool as cover for a _real _operative but never in a million years would she have expected Mossad to sacrifice him like this.

No, that was not true. It was entirely within her father's personality to send a fool like Chayat to his death much like one would sacrifice a pawn on a chessboard. She suddenly felt sick.

_"We don't think he knew Isaac was Mossad until after," _Michael said as he shook his head, _"but there was a noticeable … change in Tony's demeanor afterward."_

_"Of course you did!" _Ziva growled. _"He's not a murderer!" _She glared at Rivkin. _"What hotel is staying in?" _she asked. When Michael hesitated, she sprang to her feet and grabbed his shirt. _"What hotel?" _she hissed.

_"You know I can't tell you that," _Rivkin replied calmly. He glanced over her shoulder and discreetly shook his head. Ziva ignored the probable threat at her back.

_"He sent for me, Michael," _she said flatly. _"He _needs _me." _Rivkin grimaced when she tightened her grip on the shirt. _"Would you have stayed away if it were Dana?" _Ziva asked softly.

Michael flinched.

_"Hotel Savigny," _he said under his breath. _"Room five twenty six."_

_"Five twenty six," _Ziva repeated. She let go of him and backed away. As she expected, Officer Livni had silently rejoined them and was now lounging near the door; he held a silenced pistol in one hand. _"I need you to begin setting up a cover identity for me," _she said. _"Something that will allow me to get close to him without being too obvious."_ Michael smiled tightly.

_"Do you have approval from Tel Aviv?" _he asked calmly. When she glanced away, he shook his head in amazement. _"This is twice, Ziva," _Rivkin said. _"Twice you have abandoned your post for him. If you are not careful, your father will begin to suspect you are more loyal to Tony than you are to Mossad."_

_I am, _Ziva wanted to say, though she held her tongue. It would not be wise to say something like that in front of two junior operatives like Harari and Livni, no matter how true it might be. At best, the words would shake their confidence in Mossad, and at worst, they would pass them on to Director David himself. She had no desire to see what her father would do if he realized the extent of how badly she was compromised.

If he did not know already, that was.

_"Where is my car?" _she asked of … Ari. He glanced to Rivkin for permission to respond and Michael nodded.

_"I can take you to it," _Livni said.

An hour later, Ziva walked into the lobby of Hotel Savigny. A luxury hotel, it was in the heart of Frankfurt's financial district and within walking distance of the central rail station she had arrived in only hours earlier. The concierge manning the desk was an attractive blonde several years Ziva's junior whose impressive physical attributes were highlighted by the tight jacket she wore.

_"Welcome to Hotel Savigny, madame," _the girl said in German. Ziva gave her a smile.

_"Parlez vous francais__?" _she quickly asked hopefully. Her German was only adequate and, with this identity, French was more appropriate.

_"I do indeed," _the concierge replied, shifting easily into French. _"How may I assist you?"_

_"I am checking in for the night," _Ziva said, _"but it is a bit last minute. I do not have a reservation."_

_"That is quite all right, ma'am."_ She accepted the passport and credit card Ziva offered her with a bright smile, and began typing away on her computer.

_"Could I get room five twenty six?" _Ziva asked abruptly. _"I stayed here several months ago and rather liked that view."_ The girl typed something before glancing up.

_"I'm sorry, Ms. Ranier," _she said, _"but that room is booked. Would five twenty-four suffice?"_ Ziva nodded.

She studied the hotel lobby while the concierge finished booking the room, noting the placement of several suspicious-looking men who appeared to have guns concealed under their jackets. Ziva was not able to tell if they were hotel security or part of the surveillance team Michael had mentioned, but she made it a point to pretend like she barely noticed them even as she shifted slightly in place in order to keep the clean pistol Rivkin had given her hidden from sight.

_"There you go, Ms. Ranier," _the blonde announced a moment later, sliding some paperwork and a key card toward her. _"You're all set … oh …" _At the slight expression of surprise, Ziva looked up, her muscles tensing. _"It appears you have a package waiting for you, ma'am," _the concierge said with a confused look on her face. _"Would you like me to get it for you?"_

_"I would," _Ziva said instantly. _"Thank you."_

The package turned out to be a single sealed envelope the size of a manila folder with the name _S. Ranier _written upon the front in Tony's distinctive handwriting. Ziva accepted it with another smile before grabbing her key and walking quickly toward the elevator. She encountered no one on the fifth floor and gave 526 a quick look before deciding against breaking in to join him; there was no telling what Tony's state of mind was like at the moment and she needed more information before she could make her next move.

Once in her room, Ziva spent several long minutes checking for eavesdropping equipment of any sort before finally tearing open the envelope. A small flash drive tumbled out into her hand followed immediately by a folded sheet of paper with the hotel's logo emblazoned atop it. Ziva glanced at the note, also clearly written by Anthony DiNozzo.

_SwtChks – Give this to Mk. Stay away. Pls. ~T_

Ziva shook her head. Now, more than ever, there was even _less _of a chance that she would stay away. It would have to wait until later, though. She was exhausted, hungry and in such a dire need of a shower that she was surprised the concierge had not mistaken her for a homeless person. Not to mention, she still needed to get this flash drive to Michael without drawing attention to herself or to Tony. Ziva sighed.

It was going to be a long day.

* * *

**A/N 2: **In regards to anyone wondering why I skipped ahead, the answer is simple: Tony's activities in the time between Part 1 and Part 2 are, for the most part, not sufficiently interesting enough to hold my attention to write. From the research I've done, a _real _undercover operation has the principles involved spending long periods of time just establishing their identity and doing research on the target. As in Part 1 where I skipped over the mundane and boring parts of Tony's investigation with Michael, I did the same here. That isn't to say important things did not happen as you can tell from above - I just wanted to move into the meat of this particular part of the story...

Regarding what happened with Tim & Jeanne: yeah, more will be revealed as time goes on. Not all at once, of course, but an explanation _is _forthcoming.

As to the Lamborghini, I kind of envision the Mossad guys either sneaking it out of the country to sell it or so it could be used in future operations. But I doubt it'd be destroyed.


	53. The Widening Gyre, 3: Jethro

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: **See bottom for any review replies.

* * *

**Jethro**

He hated Mondays.

Today looked to be an especially irksome one, in between McGee's visible hangover and Ziva's tardiness. Gibbs glowered as he swept into the bullpen, a cup of coffee already in hand. As usual, Agent Lee ducked her head and glanced down, unable or unwilling to make eye contact with him. He shook his head, still not sure what to make of her. Around any other member of the team, she was capable and confident, but the moment he appeared, Lee turned into a simpering idiot incapable of tying her own shoes. Sometimes, he wondered if it was all an act to keep him guessing or to prevent her from being assigned the really difficult jobs.

"McGee!" Jethro called out, more loudly than was absolutely necessary. Tim flinched before looking up with bloodshot eyes. For the briefest of moments, Gibbs felt his heart go out to the younger man. He couldn't help but to remember the blank expression on McGee's face when Jethro arrived at the hospital to discover Tim staring at the smoking ruin that had been his Porsche, a corpse at his side. Two Benoits had died that day, one the victim of a bomb and the other from a bullet when he tried to kill Tim in a fit of grief-stricken rage.

Some days, Gibbs wondered if McGee had died that day too.

"Yeah, Boss?" Tim asked in a dull voice. Gibbs jerked a thumb over his shoulder, aiming it in the direction of Ziva's empty desk.

"Where the hell is David?" he demanded. "You're my senior field agent, McGee," Jethro continued. "It's your job to know where the rest of the team is."

"She's not answering her phone, Boss," McGee replied flatly. "I called her home number and got the machine." He pointed to his computer. "Right now," he said, "I'm running a tracer on her cell to find her." His computer pinged and he gave it a mildly surprised look. "Huh," Tim remarked. "She's at home."

"Maybe she left the cell there," Michelle interjected. "She _did _have a date on Friday with that cop, Carson." Gibbs grunted in disbelief at both the notion of Ziva not having her phone with her and of her having an actual romantic date with someone who wasn't DiNozzo. He'd seen the way she had looked at Tony before he left and Ziva's utter lack of believable reaction to the note DiNozzo supposedly left while he went off to 'find himself' had gone a long way in convincing Gibbs that his theory about another undercover mission wasn't wrong.

"Not likely," he growled. "McGee, grab your gear." Gibbs turned away sharply, tossing the now empty coffee cup into the nearest trash can.

"What do I do?" Lee asked.

"Something useful," Jethro retorted harshly as he headed for the elevator, McGee a silent shadow.

There was no sign of forced entry at Ziva's apartment so Gibbs used his key to unlock the door and step inside. He noticed the surprise that momentarily crossed McGee's face at his possession of the spare key and wondered if Tim knew he had one for every member of his team. Without commenting, Gibbs extracted a pair of gloves from his jacket pocket and pulled them on.

"Her car isn't here, Boss," McGee pointed out unnecessarily, but Jethro nodded nonetheless as he gave each of the rooms a quick scan. He smiled at the placement of several photos in the bedroom – a framed picture of DiNozzo and Ziva laughing at something while wearing ridiculous-looking paper birthday hats held a place of honor right next to a much older photo of two girls and an older boy. It took Gibbs a moment to realize that this was probably Ari and Ziva, although he didn't know who the younger girl was. A sister Ziva hadn't mentioned perhaps? Or a cousin? Gibbs turned away, fishing his phone out of his pocket, and quickly dialed Lee's number.

"Is she there?" he demanded before Michelle could do more than identify herself.

"No, sir," she replied, the instinctive honorific causing Gibbs to flinch. He wasn't an officer, dammit.

"Then put a BOLO out on her car and call that Carson guy."

"I just spoke with him," Lee said. "Ziva never showed up on Friday." Biting back a curse, Gibbs hung up and exchanged a grim look with Tim. Before Jethro could speak, his phone rang. "I wasn't done!" Lee said the moment he answered. "I already put a BOLO out on her car and it's parked at Gold's Gym there in Silver Springs." Gibbs grunted and hung up again.

"Let's go," he said as he headed toward the door. He had barely taken three steps when Tim's phone rang.

"McGee." The younger agent blinked and glanced in Gibbs' direction. "Okay. Send me the image." He smirked. "I'll let him know." To Gibbs, he said, "That was Michelle, Boss. She still wasn't finished." Jethro grunted though his heart lightened slightly at the flash of actual amusement that flickered across Tim's face. If Gibbs had learned anything from Tony it was that sometimes, playing the fool was good for morale. "The police responded to our BOLO so quickly because a car was stolen from the parking lot of the gym. Michelle's sending me the picture of the owner … oh …" Tim's eyes widened as he studied the image he'd just received on the phone. At Gibbs' impatient frown, McGee offered him the device and Jethro gave the photo a single glance. The woman could be Ziva's sister.

"She's on the move," he said sharply.

They arrived at the gym mere minutes later thanks to Gibbs' aggressive driving style. A single police cruiser was parked there waiting and the bored-looking officer was slow in climbing out of the car as they approached. He gave them a sour look.

"You the Navy cops?" the LEO asked. Gibbs ignored him and walked directly to the parked Mini, knowing that McGee would pick up the slack. Despite his emotional issues, Tim had done an exceptional job as lead agent after Cassie Yates was promoted and got her own team in San Diego.

Gibbs circled the car twice, studying it with a practiced eye as he donned a pair of gloves. The placement of the _Deep Six _paperback on the passenger seat seemed too obvious not to be a message of some sort, but until they got inside the car, Gibbs didn't know what that message was. Frowning, he glanced in the direction of McGee, noting with some approval that the LEO looked uncomfortable under Tim's almost remorseless interrogation. With the two preoccupied, neither noticed as Jethro extracted a lockpicking kit from his front pocket and proceeded to break into the Mini.

A postcard was stuck inside the paperback, almost as if it were being used to mark a particular page, and Gibbs gave the scene in question a quick glance. It was a fictional account of the events where Tony and Ziva went undercover as married assassins and, in McGee's book, marked the point where Agent Tommy and Officer Lisa first became lovers after DiNozzo's analogue put his life on the line for his partner. More interesting, however, was the handwriting on the postcard. He stared at it for a long moment, wondering why the hell DiNozzo would be near the Alps.

"That looks like Tony's handwriting, Boss," McGee said abruptly. The LEO was still hovering near his car, looking very much like someone who wanted to go home.

"Because it is," Gibbs replied. He glanced up at Tim and the younger man quickly recognized his cue.

"Ziva didn't sign in," he said, "but several eyewitnesses are pretty sure she entered the gym at the same time as Maria Sanchez, the owner of the missing car. No one is sure when she left and no one saw what happened to Mrs. Sanchez's Lamborghini." McGee glanced over his shoulder to locate the police officer before lowering his voice. "Ziva took it, didn't she?"

"You think?" He slid the postcard into one of his pockets, ignoring Tim's raised eyebrows.

"Why?"

"To shake any possible surveillance," Gibbs replied. He stood. "Get her car to the office. Ziva will want it back when she returns."

"On it, Boss," McGee said in a frighteningly good imitation of Tony. Jethro grunted and walked straight to the Charger. A moment later, he was on the road once more.

The security guards outside the Israeli Embassy gave him a tight frown when he parked in a spot normally reserved for visiting dignitaries, but allowed him to pass the moment he flashed his ID. Over the last eight months, he had visited Michael Bashan more times than he cared to think about in order to find out the status of his often missing liaison officer. More often than not, Bashan seemed as clueless as Gibbs was regarding Ziva's activities, which prompted Jethro to suspect the man simply wasn't in the loop when it came to any operation she might be running.

That in and of itself was disturbing.

"May I help you, Agent Gibbs?" Bashan's aide asked. He was a timid-looking fellow, with horn-rimmed glasses that had gone out of style thirty years ago, but the sharpness of his gaze and the easy way he moved suggested that he was anything _but _timid.

"Here to see your boss," Gibbs replied. When the aide began to prevaricate, Jethro turned his attention to a nearby camera. "Tell him it's about a missing Lamborghini he may know something about," he said flatly.

A moment later, he was shown to Bashan's office.

"Where is she?" Gibbs demanded without preamble. He crossed his arms and glared. Too late, he realized that Bashan had the same harried look about him that he'd worn the last time Ziva had vanished without a trace several weeks ago.

"I was hoping you could tell me, Agent Gibbs." Bashan gestured toward a comfortable-looking chair in front of his desk. "We have the Lamborghini at the moment," the Mossad control officer revealed, "but we do not know exactly how it came into our possession." He ran his hands through his hair. "I have been in contact with Tel Aviv and Director David insists that his daughter has not been assigned a mission." Gibbs narrowed his eyes.

"That was fast," he remarked, thinking more of the speed with which Bashan had contacted Tel Aviv than the answers he was receiving.

"When a beautiful car such as that turns up unexpectedly in a place it should not be," Bashan said with a half-smirk, half-grimace, "wise men find out everything they can about its owner." He sighed. "I do not know where Officer David is, Agent Gibbs," he said, "and if the director does, he is not telling me."

"I'd like to talk to him," Jethro said abruptly. "Privately."

"If you have information about Officer David's whereabouts," Bashan said with narrowed eyes, "I need to know."

"Do you?" Gibbs asked with a knowing smirk. The expression that flashed across Bashan's face was one-half fear, one-half curiosity, and one hundred percent annoyed. Still, he leaned back in his chair and nodded.

"Ziva is not on assignment," Eli David said via the secure video conference long minutes later. Israel was seven hours ahead of D.C., which put local time in Tel Aviv at 1700. From the dark shadows under his eyes, though, the Mossad director had been up for a very long time.

"But you've got a good idea where she's going, don't you?" Gibbs asked harshly. It was difficult to look at this man and not remember that he was ultimately responsible for the monster that had been Ari Haswari.

"I would not be doing my job well if that were not the case," David retorted calmly. His eyes might as well have been chips of ice. "And you have not yet given me any reason to believe this is your business, Agent Gibbs."

_"This_ makes it my business," Jethro growled as he held up the postcard. "The handwriting," he said grimly, "is DiNozzo's." David's reaction was instantaneous and anything but faked. He frowned, glanced down and narrowed his eyes. After a few seconds, he blew out a frustrated breath.

"Two of Ziva's false identities were used in the last forty-eight hours," he said. "One in Boston, one in Quebec. We know she was heading to London, but lost track of her there."

"She's going to back-up DiNozzo," Gibbs guessed. "Just like she did in Moscow." David was silent for a moment before carefully nodding, confirming Jethro's worst fears. He suddenly wanted to strangle Jenny for putting Tony in this situation; had DiNozzo even been given a choice or was he strong-armed into jumping back into the fire while still recovering from the last time?

"That is our theory," David admitted before suddenly smiling a predator's smile. "This is becoming a troublesome habit of hers," he said. "Were I a more paranoid man, I might actually be concerned over her loyalty." It was said in a simple, conversational tone, but the words nevertheless sent a chill up Gibbs' spine. This was a man who had sacrificed one child upon the altar of Israeli security; would he even hesitate to send another to death?

"I need to know specifics about DiNozzo's op," Jethro said quickly. He had the terrible feeling that he would soon be backing up _two _agents, not one.

"Speak to your director," David replied before ending the transmission.

* * *

**A/N 2: **For those wondering about Michael, I have _no _plans to turn him into the cliche that the canon version of the character was. I was _sorely _disappointed with what they did with him and thought it would have been far more interesting if he was portrayed as the Mossad version of Tony, thus implying that, while in Israel post-Judgment Day, Ziva sought out a substitute for the man she couldn't have. And then, just to be humorous, I'd have him & Tony hit it off like old frat brothers. Plus, I'd have had him be smart enough to know why Ziva was sleeping with him, have him break up with for that reason, and then turn him into a recurring character ala Fornell and Kort. Instead, they turned him into ... that.

Regarding Tony & Ziva's coordination, they did so during their 'illicit' meeting post-chapter 50 of Part 1 that was mentioned earlier.


	54. The Widening Gyre, 4: Tony

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: **To my surprise, I discovered that I have been erroneously identifying Leon Vance as the "Assistant Director" when his actual title would be "Deputy Director of Operations." I've corrected the previous chapters ... and you probably don't care or didn't notice. heh.

And a major **THANK YOU **to those who helped my fic "Too Late" win Best Other in the 2009 NCIS LJ awards. :D

* * *

**Tony**

It was hard to look at himself in the mirror these days.

As he brushed his teeth, Tony kept his eyes focused on a spot just above the sink but low enough that couldn't quite make out his reflection. Being unable to look in the mirror would have made shaving difficult if he had not cultivated a beard for this cover identity. By his reckoning, he still had another two or three days before he needed to trim the facial hair and, if necessary, he could always locate a hair stylist to do it for him. As long as he didn't have to look at the murderer in the mirror.

Spitting out the toothpaste, he leaned down and craned his head to fill his mouth with water straight from the faucet. It was a bad habit of his from childhood, one he'd never really broken despite his age, but one that kept him grounded in who he really was, not who he was supposed to be. Tomás D'Agostino would never drink from the bathroom faucet, but Tony DiNozzo sure as hell would.

With his mouth feeling minty fresh, Tony grabbed a towel and dried his face, turning away from the mirror as he did. Today was going to be difficult even without him second-guessing himself or looking into accusing eyes. For three weeks, he had been promising himself that the dead Mossad officer – Chayat, his name had apparently been – would not have died in vain. Tony would break open this organization, smash it apart and then let Mossad do with him what they wanted to in retaliation for the death of their officer. Whatever they decided to do to him, he deserved it. Murderers didn't deserve second chances.

"This isn't helping," he muttered softly to himself. Somehow, he managed to stay in character despite how badly he wanted to just pick up the phone and call Ziva or Mike or Tim or even Gibbs. Tomás D'Agostino was simply nervous about meeting this Regine Smidt woman tonight. He certainly didn't care that twenty-one days had passed since he shot a member of Israel's Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations.

He spent almost an hour carefully choosing the clothes he would wear tonight. They needed to be functional yet classy, something baggy enough to conceal the body armor he intended to wear underneath his shirt without actually _showing _that he was wearing a bulletproof vest, and above all else, something that a wealthy snob like Tomás D'Agostino would actually wear out in public. The watch he slid onto his left wrist didn't have a laser in it or allow him to record conversations or even shoot a grappling line; it was just an expensive time keeping device befitting his cover identity. The shoes wouldn't allow him to walk on walls and the belt was just a belt. Finally, the authentic Colt M1911 with ivory-grips went into the shoulder holster. It was more for show than anything else – the Sig strapped to the small of his back was his actual primary, with the snub-nosed .38 in the ankle holster as backup. While the Colt was a good gun, this one was more of an antique than a weapon. He wasn't even sure if it still worked.

The light jacket he donned was not entirely necessary – June in Germany was warm enough that he could wear shorts and not look like a fool – but offered him some added concealment for the weapons he was carrying. He donned a pair of mirrored sunglasses and spent a few extra moments examining his appearance in a wall mirror. When he noticed that his right hand was trembling slightly, he balled it up in a fist and made a mental note to eat before leaving the hotel. Tony wasn't sure if it was low blood sugar that was causing the shakes or just pre-game jitters, but he figured it would be safer to get some food into his stomach now rather than later.

His two shadows pursued him down to the lobby floor, but he pretended not to notice them. They had become a constant in the last three weeks, ever since Officer Chayat of Mossad showed up in the middle of a business meeting and pulled a gun. Even now, twenty-one days after the fact, Tony couldn't block out the memory of his instinctive reaction: pull, aim, squeeze. Brief seconds that changed a man's life forever … or took it away.

He wasn't foolish enough to not wonder _why _Director David sent the man and, when he couldn't sleep, sometimes wondered if Isaac Chayat had been sacrificed to cement the reputation of Tomás D'Agostino. It was thoughts like those that inevitably sent him retching to the toilet.

Tony was seated almost instantly when he entered the hotel restaurant – throwing money around like he had been for the last month certainly got him good service – and quickly ordered some French dish that he could barely pronounce. The waiter recommended a white wine to go along with the meal despite the earliness of the day and DiNozzo decided on the second most expensive bottle they had. He would barely touch it, of course, and would arrange for the remainder of the wine to be sent to his room where it would promptly go down the drain once he had the opportunity.

The meal – it was some sort of scallops and shrimp thing that Tony decided he would never even _think_ about getting again – sat heavy on his stomach as he checked the time. Both of his silent watchmen had entered the restaurant as unobtrusively as possible, and with a sudden grin, DiNozzo had the rest of his overpriced wine delivered to their table. One of them broke protocol and glanced in his direction, a startled look on his face, and Tony held up his mostly full wineglass in a mocking salute.

Neither of the ingrates even bothered to thank him for his generosity.

Shortly after he finished eating, his phone trilled. Feigning general boredom, he examined the cell before finally answering it.

"Have you ever visited the Zoological Center?" a feminine voice asked calmly without even bothering to identify herself. She had a strong accent, though Tony couldn't quite place it.

"Can't say that I have," he replied. "Anything in particular I should look for?" The woman chuckled.

"Do not worry, Herr D'Agostino," she said. _"We _will be looking for _you."_ She hung up.

"Yeah," Tony muttered as he quickly scribbled his signature on the credit card receipt, "that's real comforting." Three extra letters – _zoo _– went on the bottom of the receipt and he gestured for his waiter to pick it up.

A bright, obsequious smile on his face, Ari Livni sprang to obey.

The zoo might have actually been interesting if he was still under ten, but the only thing Tony really noticed was how badly it smelled. He weaved through the relatively dense crowd for a Monday – there appeared to be some sort of school function taking place, with dozens of children all having the attention spans of fruitflies running amok – and finally found himself standing before the primate cage. He couldn't help himself: monkeys were hysterical, even when they just sat there and watched you like _you _were the one in a cage.

Despite his apparent distraction, though, he was perfectly aware of the approaching woman.

She was his age, blonde and striking, with a slim build that he unconsciously compared to Ziva's. The pantsuit she was dressed in had a conservative cut but was clearly intended more for function than appearance. She didn't appear to be armed, though the six … no, the seven men scattered around them within listening distance more than made up for that.

"Herr D'Agostino," she greeted with a nod and an extended hand. In person, her accent was a little more pronounced but he _still _couldn't identify where she came from. Tony flashed her a smile and took the hand.

"You must be Miss Smidt," he said. She inclined her head slightly before glancing around.

"I must say," she began with a slight smile, "I am surprised that you did not bring back-up."

"Do I need it?" Tony asked before turning back to face the monkeys. They returned his look with bland indifference. One even yawned. "And who says I didn't bring back-up? It's not my fault if your boys aren't good enough to notice."

"I suspect we _would_ notice, Herr D'Agostino," the woman said. She glanced around the park once more, frowning as a group of children passed by. "The people I represent," Smidt said softly, "are _quite _interested in your connections inside the American military." She smiled. "Certain … complications have arisen that necessitate that we make new … connections in the arms community."

"Heard about that," Tony remarked. He tilted his head back and forth, grinning when the monkey in front of him did the same thing. "That would be the less than tragic demise of René Benoit, right?"

Smidt froze.

She half-turned her head and studied him for a long moment of silence, her face emotionless and her eyes unblinking. Tony forced himself not to react even as he struggled to understand her reaction. Had she been La Grenouille's lover? Intelligence had indicated she was just his technical expert – and a damned sight better looking one than McGee! – who doubled as his all-around secretary and go-to gal. There wasn't anything in the reports about her sleeping with the man, so why was she reacting like he'd just shot her dog?

"Where did you learn that name?" she asked softly, steel in her voice.

Ah. Oops. He wasn't supposed to know the Frog's real name.

"Would you prefer his nom de guerre, La Grenouille?" Tony asked with a tight smirk. When in doubt, he reflected, lie even harder. "Like I said," he added when she did not reply, "my contacts are pretty extensive in the U.S. military community. I heard the NCIS director actually threw a party when your old boss kicked the bucket."

"Where did you learn that name?" Smidt repeated.

"A friend of a friend," Tony said. "I can put you in touch with this friend if the price is right."

"You realize, of course," the blonde said tightly, "that with a word, I can have you fed to these animals."

"Now why would you do that?" DiNozzo asked, dropping his amicable tone even though he didn't look away from the monkeys. "We're negotiating over what I have for sale and you have to whip out the threats." He frowned. "I wonder if maybe I should just look elsewhere instead. I'm sure the Chinese would _love _to know about Domino."

"You said nothing about Domino," Smidt said in a low hiss. She took a step closer to him, her eyes bright.

"That's because you never asked," Tony retorted with a smirk. "My cards are on the table, Miss Smidt, and I'm willing to deal with you and yours." His smile vanished. "But only if you're willing to do the same. If you're going to continue to screw around with me like you have for the last month, I'm going to speak with the Chinese. Or the Iranians. Hell, I might even give the Israelis a try. But I'm done playing around."

Smidt studied him for a moment before abruptly frowning. The part of his brain that remained mired in the frathouse couldn't help but to notice that she was attractive even then.

"I think," the blonde said, lowering her voice as another large group of visitors wandered by, "that you are not who you say you are." At her discreet gesture, two of the hulking man-beasts that had accompanied her stepped closer. "I think you are lying to me and wasting my time." She frowned even deeper. "I think we shall have words somewhere else, somewhere that will not be so public."

Suddenly, she wasn't so attractive.

"I sincerely hope you aren't that stupid," Tony said darkly. He looked past the woman briefly, scanning the crowd and flinching at what he saw. Or rather who. "If you think someone else can get you Domino," he growled, "then be my guest. Be a pity if they ended up like the last poor bastard who tried." Smidt's eyes narrowed. "Killed by a Mossad agent, wasn't he?" Tony asked.

"How do you know that?"

Another voice answered.

"Because I killed him." Her eyes concealed behind dark sunglasses, Ziva David walked by the two guards and looked directly at Tony, a smile on her lips and her left hand hidden inside the windbreaker she wore. When she spoke, her voice was warm. "Hello, Tomás."


	55. The Widening Gyre, 5: Ziva

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: **Some foul language ahead, but nothing you wouldn't normally hear on a military base.

* * *

**Ziva**

Despite her exhaustion, she wasn't able to get more than a few hours of sleep.

It was barely eight o'clock in the morning (local) when Ziva gave up trying to rest and rolled out of bed. After double-checking the various early alert devices she had jury-rigged before collapsing on the bed, she took both her sidearm and the flash drive into the bathroom with her for a quick but much-needed shower. The feel of the hot water on her skin was divine and it more than the hours of sleep helped ease the tension that had tightened the muscles in her lower back.

After drying her hair and dressing, Ziva studied the flash drive for several long minutes while she turned over the best way to get it to Michael. First, she would need to make contact and arrange a drop-off site in the event that the electronics store was compromised. Ideally, Rivkin could pass off the cover identity he'd prepared for her so she could slide back into Tony's life.

And the mission, of course.

Speed was her primary concern at the moment. Once she inserted herself into the operation, it would be harder for her father to simply recall her to Tel Aviv or Washington. She could not help Tony from either of those locations and, as one of Gibbs' rules stated that it was easier to ask forgiveness than permission; it was number nine, she thought, although the way he jumbled them around on a whim, that might be the one about always carrying a knife instead. Besides, the success of the mission outweighed everything else, and with her assisting him as well as watching his back, Tony was certain to succeed. It was not that she did not trust Michael … she just had more confidence in her own skills.

The flash drive was slightly too wide to fit in the secret compartment that was the heel of her right boot, so she carefully removed the outer casing of the digital storage device, revealing the small circuit board. This she wrapped in waterproof plastic stripped from the complimentary basket of fruit provided for each room. Once it was protected to her satisfaction, she was able to wedge the disassembled drive inside the boot heel without risking damage to it.

With the pistol firmly secured at the small of her back and the brace of throwing knives strapped to her calf but concealed underneath her loose-fitting pants, Ziva checked her appearance and nodded in satisfaction. No one stopped her as she exited the hotel, though she caught sight of several men trying to be inconspicuous inside the lobby (but failing); they were different from the ones she saw the previous night, which likely meant a shift change. She did not bother with a taxi once outside, but instead turned south on Savignystraße. A mere three hundred meters away from the hotel, she lucked upon an internet café.

Michael responded to her email with an address for a restaurant on the other side of the city almost instantly and, after paying for the lukewarm and fairly tasteless coffee served at the café, Ziva hailed a taxi. To her utter lack of surprise, Rivkin was already there, half hidden in a corner near the kitchen door but with a clear view of the entrance. She smiled as she took a seat across from him but with a nice view herself.

_"What do you recommend?" _she asked in Spanish as she began thumbing through the menu. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that the last time she had eaten anything substantial was … well, she could not remember when. Before she left America, certainly. With her right hand, she discreetly reached under the table and slid the flash drive out of where she had it concealed.

_"To eat?" _Michael flashed a grin. _"I believe we long ago established that our tastes in food are _not _the same."_

Ziva nodded and decided upon the chicken.

They made small talk while waiting for their food, interspersing code phrases into their discussion that allowed them to effectively carry on two different conversations at once. While 'arguing' over who was to pay the bill, Ziva passed the flash drive to Michael and he palmed it so smoothly that she barely noticed, even though she was actively watching for the sleight of hand. She did not even see him slide the passport and other documents for her new identity into the pocket of her designer jacket and he gave her a knowing smirk.

She ducked into the bathroom to glance over her new identity and memorize the particulars. Michael had included a handwritten note with a series of bullet points highlighting the most important aspects of her life and, as she skimmed over it, Ziva realized it was decidedly familiar. It took her another moment to recognize why.

This had been Dana's life.

Oh, there were slight adjustments to be sure, but the bulk of the experiences were things Ziva knew her late friend had done over the course of her too short life. For a moment, she was confused – this background was simply too extensive, too well prepared for Michael to have developed overnight. It was as if this was a prepared identity, one that Mossad had expected her to adopt for a long-term undercover mission. She blinked when comprehension dawned.

Her father was behind this.

Licking her lips, she ripped the note into tiny shreds and flushed it down the toilet while her mind raced. Was this the reason so many of her missions for Mossad in the last eight months had kept her out of the public eye that was NCIS? Her father knew she hated surveillance, but had assigned her to no less than three lengthy ops that had her doing nothing but sitting in an apartment and watching another building for days on end. Ziva shook her head and wondered if she would ever understand Eli David.

_"You know about this?" _she asked softly once she rejoined Michael at the table. He gave her a discreet nod, though she saw the glint of pain in his eyes. _"Did he _intend _for me to …"_

_"Intend?" _Michael repeated. _"No, I do not think so." _He forced a smile on his face. _"Whether he _expected_ it, however, is another question entirely."_

_"I will also need to know more about … __Tomás." _Rivkin nodded and slid another scrap of paper to her. It too was little more than a broad outline with several bullet points. Ziva's eyebrows rose in mild surprise and amused recognition.

Tomás D'Agostino had been married four times, divorced thrice and had lost his first wife – his childhood sweetheart, Caitlin – in a tragic accident nearly ten years ago. Born to wealthy parents, he had inherited the family fortune (made in running guns, as it turned out) at sixteen while attending military prep school, lost it by twenty through various bad investments and wild parties, and rebuilt it by twenty-five. Twice, he had narrowly avoided arms trafficking charges in the United States and there was an outstanding warrant for his arrest in England. He had a penchant for bourbon, spoke fluent Italian and Spanish, and met his most recent wife in the Middle East during a busted arms deal.

She had to smile at the last part.

Michael's phone vibrated as she was finishing her perusal of D'Agostino's life, and Ziva could almost feel him tense as he listened to whoever he was speaking to. When he ended the call, he glanced up and met her eyes. She knew immediately: Tony.

_"He is meeting some … associates at the zoo," _Rivkin said flatly. _"I need more time to coordinate security!"_

_"I don't," _Ziva remarked calmly. _"Do you have a standard kit in your car?"_ Michael nodded. _"Then give me the keys," _she ordered. _"Have your team maintain a very low profile unless the situation gets … violent."_

_"Good luck," _Michael whispered as he slid the keys across the table to her.

It took her only minutes to assemble the proper accouterments from the kit Rivkin had in his car, and Ziva's stomach twisted and snarled with discomfort as she did so. Once properly equipped, she pulled her jacket on and followed the built-in GPS device as it gave directions to the zoo. She found an out of the way bench to sit down at so as to keep an eye on the main entrance. Tony entered nearly twenty minutes later, a beard covering his jaw and altering his physical appearance just enough that she nearly did not recognize him. He did not see her and she forced herself to _not _watch him as he bought his ticket and entered the zoo proper. Bare minutes later, a blonde woman she knew from the debriefing about La Grenouille in the wake of Tim's shooting of the arms dealer entered, discreetly followed by several large men who were obviously bodyguards. She counted eight, though one remained behind to cover their rear.

Ziva waited exactly one minute before moving against the eighth man.

He was lurking near the men's restroom, pretending to wash his hands, and his attention was so focused on the actual entrance to the zoo that he did not even sense Ziva's approach. Striking quickly, she bounced his head off the metal sink and he dropped to the ground, thoroughly unconscious but still alive. She grunted with effort as she grabbed his arm and dragged him into the empty restroom. By the time she had maneuvered him onto one of the toilets, zip-tied his fingers to the plumbing behind the commode, and duct taped his mouth shut, sweat was dripping off her brow. He started to stir so she dug through the 'purse' she'd grabbed from Michael's kit and injected the man with a morphine-derived sedative. He slid back into unconsciousness without a sound.

An elderly man gave her a wide-eyed look as she emerged from the men's restroom, but she winked at him and kept moving. There was never any doubt where Tony would end up – the two times they had visited the zoo during Gibbs' Mexican vacation, he had always wandered into the primate den where he watched the monkeys and orangutans with childlike glee. At first, she had thought it was another symptom of his occasionally juvenile behavior, but an investigation for NCIS had taken them to the D.C. zoo and, to her surprise, both Gibbs and McGee had chuckled at the antics of the monkeys which prompted her to suspect it was a gender thing.

As she neared him, Ziva caught snippets of the conversation he was having with the blonde. Tony was tense but hiding it well, while Smidt seemed to be barely holding it together. She was obviously on a timetable and getting desperate, which gave them the upper hand. When Tony half turned to say something to the blonde, Ziva could tell he had noticed her from his subtle flinch. She abandoned her attempts to be circumspect and began striding directly toward him just in time to catch the tail end of the conversation. It was telling, in her opinion, that the guards were so focused on 'D'Agostino' that they did not even seem to notice her until it was too late.

"Killed by a Mossad agent, wasn't he?" Tony asked.

"How do you know that?" Smidt sounded shaken and suspicious, a dangerous combination, so Ziva answered.

"Because I killed him." She strode by the two meaty thugs that were several steps away from where Tony stood, a smile on her lips and her left hand hidden inside the windbreaker she wore. When she spoke, her voice was warm. "Hello, Tomás."

_"This _is your back-up?" Smidt asked, suddenly incredulous. She shook her head. "I did not realize you were an idiot," she said.

"Who is the more foolish?" Ziva asked as she pulled her hand out of the jacket. "It was _your _guards who allowed a woman with a suicide belt to walk by them." All eyes fell to the left hand the dead man's trigger Ziva clutched. With her right hand, she pulled the zipper of her jacket down just enough to show the hint of explosives.

As one, the guards took a step back.

"I would make no sudden moves if I were you," Ziva said with a bright smile. "Tomás, dear, you should have warned me about the very large, very foolish man they left guarding the front entrance." Smidt's eyes widened and she wet her lips. "I know you are trying to make a good impression with these … people so I did not kill him."

"Appreciate that, sweet cheeks," Tony replied through clenched teeth.

"You do not have the courage to release that," Smidt said hesitantly. Sweat was pouring off her very attractive face and Ziva could see the fear in the eyes of the men at her backs. She smiled.

"In Israel," she said calmly, "we face this sort of indiscriminate death every day. I have no fear of dying." Smidt's eyes darted to Tony who shrugged.

"I believe we were negotiating," he said flatly. "And my price for Domino just increased ten percent." Ziva smiled. _Well played, _she thought.

"If you release that," Smidt said, "you will kill him as well."

"I decided long ago that I would die alongside my husband," Ziva declared.

Tony coughed.

"I never signed the papers, my hairy butt," she told him before leaning toward Smidt and speaking in a stage whisper, as if confiding a deep, dark secret. "He is simply _wonderful _in bed and I could not give that up, no matter that Mossad now wants me dead and thinks me a traitor." Ziva forced a vaguely distraught look on her face and glanced to Tony. "I _am _sorry," she said to him, "that they sent someone after you in an attempt to get to me."

"Don't worry about it, sweet cheeks," Tony said with a smile that vanished the moment he returned his eyes to Smidt. "And my price for Domino just increased _another _ten percent," he added.

"I will … I will need to consult my superiors," the blonde prevaricated. "We will want the actual database, not just the schematics," she said. Tony frowned.

"Then my price just went up even more," he replied. "Seven hundred and fifty million."

"In Euros," Ziva interjected with a bright smile. "The dollar simply is not worth what it used to be." Smidt grimaced.

"Twelve hours?" she asked.

"You have twenty," Tony said. "I'm trying to be reasonable, Miss Smidt, but I _am _losing patience."

"And you are running out of time," Ziva added, pinning the woman with a cold stare. Smidt quailed. "Your stupid guard is visiting the restroom," she said before gesturing sharply with her left hand. Two of the guards had already vanished down the trail, the backward glances they kept casting in her direction proof that they had no desire to see if she was bluffing or not.

Within seconds, she and Tony were the only ones still present, and DiNozzo gave her a hot glare before spinning away. He took only a few steps before turning back toward and staring, anger and terror in his eyes.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded. "I told you to stay away!"

"And I ignored you," Ziva replied before nodding toward a nearby restroom. This conversation needed to be someplace private, someplace where directional microphones could not eavesdrop. Tony's jaw muscles quivered as he fast-walked toward the bathroom facilities. No one was inside but he turned on the faucets anyway as she glanced around for something to block the door. A block of wood likely used to prop the doors open while the custodial crew cleaned the facilities was hidden in a corner and she jammed it in place to prevent unexpected interruptions.

"Goddammit, Ziva!" Tony hissed. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that my partner needed me to back him up," she replied as she released the dead man's switch. Tony did not even blink as she tossed it onto a shelf and unzipped her jacket, revealing the false explosives concealed underneath. "Was that not your intention when you sent me the postcard?"

"Tell me that you at least passed the drive on to Michael," DiNozzo begged. He had removed the sunglasses and was staring at her with wide, unblinking eyes. Ziva nodded.

"He has it," she said softly before taking a step closer to him. "I am here to stay, _Tomás," _she remarked, "so deal with it."

"Dammit," Tony murmured. He sagged back against the wall, his shoulders slumping with exhaustion and tension. At a glance, she could tell he was on the verge of a breakdown, something neither of them could afford. Ziva crossed the remaining distance and wrapped her arms around him. He responded immediately, pulling her even closer, and she could feel his muscles trembling underneath her fingertips.

_"Secure," _Michael's voice whispered in her ear and Ziva lifted a finger to touch the tactical earpiece. _"They left no one behind."_ She leaned forward and kissed Tony lightly.

"We need to go, _husband,_" she whispered.

Later that night, as she collapsed atop his chest, her breath and heartbeat finally slowing to something reasonable, Ziva realized how thoroughly compromised she was. If Tony asked it of her, she would walk away from Mossad for him, away from her father and the land of her birth, without ever looking back. It wasn't fair. She wasn't supposed to fall for a silly, immature, ridiculous man-child whose idea of romance was surf-and-turf and an old movie.

Damn him.

Ziva sighed. And wondered what Tali would have thought of Tony. The pleasant thought carried her into sleep and blissful dreams.


	56. The Widening Gyre, 6: Tony

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: **Some sexual situations ahead as well as some thoroughly tasteless nudity. Mmmm ... nekkid Cote ... mmmm ...

And to any of you worried about the fluff content thus far, trust me. Things are going to get angsty (but not the usual cliched 'will they/won't they' angst that Hollywood thinks is interesting), bumpy, dark, and pretty damned violent. There are some seriously mature themes ahead that might be difficult to read once I reach them. So be warned: bad things are coming ... and the centre cannot hold ...

* * *

**Tony**

He woke to an unfamiliar weight on his chest.

The smell of Ziva's hair and the feel of her breath upon his chest washed away the momentary confusion that enveloped him, leaving Tony wide awake and so unbelievably conflicted he didn't know what to do. On one hand, he should have known better than to actually trust that Ziva would – for once – do what she was told. For someone who had lectured him almost constantly about the importance of following orders since she came into his life, she seemed pathologically incapable of actually doing so herself except when it served her goals … which was probably why they got along as well as they did since he operated in pretty much the same way. But, on the other hand, he had desperately hoped she wouldn't insert herself in this nightmare, no matter what she was capable of thanks to her super ninja assassin training. Kate had been a Secret Service agent trained to protect the president and a single well-aimed bullet took her away forever. He wasn't sure if he could go on if Ziva was killed.

A frown slowly crossed his face as he stared at the ceiling and let himself luxuriate in the feel of her warmth half draped over him. _Had_ he really wanted her to stay away or was the postcard his subconscious' way of getting her involved? Tony couldn't deny that she had skills and training he didn't, that she had already saved his ass from probable torture and death yesterday with nothing more than a couple of road flares, some wires and a mocked up dead man's switch, but was he really stupid enough to want her smack dab in the middle of this crap? He sighed.

Yeah, he probably was.

"Stop thinking," Ziva murmured, tightening her grip on him and trying to bury her nose even deeper in his neck. Tony couldn't help himself from smiling; who would have ever thought it, Ziva David a _snuggler?_

"I'm very angry at you," he mumbled as he let his head fall back onto the pillow they had started out sharing. Apparently, she thought his chest was more comfortable. Not that he was complaining, of course.

"How angry?" she asked with a lazy smile that still had a touch of last night's passion in it. Tony groaned – he hated how she could do that to him. Usually.

"Ziva," he started to say, but she frowned and placed two fingers upon his lips.

"You need to get accustomed to calling me by my cover identity," she said quickly. At the moment, they were relatively safe – from the zoo, they had checked into a different hotel Ziva had apparently selected at random, ostensibly for a long overdue conversation (although _talking_ really hadn't been at the top of their list of things to do.) Even with there being no chance at all that the room was under surveillance, she had conducted an intensive anti-bug sweep and even taped some sort of vibrating gizmo – oh, the jokes he wanted to make about her possession of _that_ device – to the window just in case someone tried to use a laser microphone. Tony grunted softly; he hated when she was right.

"Yes, _Lisa," _he said with an amused twist of his lips. "Lisa and Tommy," he added a moment later, shaking his head as he spoke. "McGee's gonna have a field day with this." He watched as Ziva smiled.

_"I _did not choose the name of your fourth wife, Mister D'Agostino," she retorted before laying her head down on his chest. After several long minutes of comfortable silence, she tilted her head up to meet his eyes, propping her chin up on his chest. Until this moment, he hadn't thought that someone's _chin _could used as a weapon but … dammit, this was worse than her crappy attempts at a back rub! "Do you have anything resembling a plan?" she asked.

"Arrange for electronic payment," he said, "and then have Harari – you know him, right? – backtrace the accounts." Tony gave a tight frown. "Mike has also suggested we grab this Smidt chick and use a pair of pliers and a blowtorch to get Medieval on her ass. I'm not too keen on that idea."

"Because it involves torture?" There was no disappointment in her tone, only simple curiosity.

"Sort of, yeah," Tony replied. "We're supposed to be the good guys, Zi … Lisa. Good guys don't resort to those tactics unless it's absolutely necessary." He shifted slightly on the bed. "God," he muttered, "do you have knives in your chin? Or is this some sort of Mossad pressure point training?" Ziva's eyes twinkled.

"I could always tell you that I am a Cyberdyne Systems Model 101 with living flesh over a metal endoskeleton," she replied with a smile.

"Somebody's been into my movie collection while I was away," Tony said with a bright grin. He tucked a strand of her unkempt hair behind her ear. She leaned into his palm, looking so contented that he halfway expected her to purr.

"Your plan has some flaws to it," Ziva said as she rolled onto her back, thankfully removing her razor-sharp chin from his poor, defenseless chest. "If Smidt's associates are intelligent," she said, "they will be prepared for a cyber-assault such as that and will have dead herrings to distract you."

"Red herrings," Tony corrected instantly before realizing she was smirking. "You did that on purpose," he accused. She shrugged.

"Have you considered tailing this woman?" she asked. Tony gave her an annoyed look. "Of course you did," she said quickly. "That would have been Michael's first suggestion."

"No, his first idea was to use the pliers and blowtorch. After I vetoed that, he wanted to follow her home and _then _use the blowtorch." DiNozzo shook his head. "What is it with you Mossad types and torture?" he wondered half-heartedly.

"Did you actually follow her?" Ziva asked, clearly intent on getting back on track. She plopped her head on his chest and stared at the ceiling.

"A couple of times," Tony said. "We know where she crashes at night, which one of her guards she sleeps with and what type of wine she drinks after sex, but not where or who her boss is." He blew out a frustrated breath. "Moshe tried to hack her computer, but she's got it locked down tighter than Fort Knox and only connects to the internet for a few minutes at a time." Tony frowned. "Mike managed to break in one night," he said, "and planted a couple of bugs, which led them to move into an even higher security place as soon as they found the bugs."

"So," Ziva mused, "this woman is competent, intelligent and paranoid."

"And running out of time," Tony said. "What did you mean when you told her that?"

"Exactly what I said," came the instant reply. "You did not see it? She is desperate to complete this deal."

"Maybe I'm not the only one trying to prove myself to her boss," DiNozzo said. "Makes sense, I guess. Her old boss got himself dead and now she's trying to show the new management that she's worth keeping around."

The vibration of his cell phone prevented Ziva from saying anything else and, with a heavy sigh, Tony rolled out of bed so he could find his pants. Last night, he hadn't really cared much where they ended up but now, he needed them. He glanced at the bed, noting instantly that Ziva had moved only to get more comfortable and readjust the sheet covering her body. With her fingers interlocked behind her head and her elbows splayed out like she was about to start doing sit-ups, she watched him move around the room with an approving smile.

"Are you going to help?" he demanded.

"No," she replied instantly. "I am enjoying the creep show."

"I _really _hope you didn't mess _that _one up on purpose," Tony muttered. He found his underwear – they were hanging off an ugly plastic plant – and pulled them on, ignoring Ziva's noise of disapproval. His pants were in the bathroom (though he honestly didn't know how they got _there_), and he pulled the phone out of the front pocket. "Show time," he said with a sharp look in Ziva's direction. The amused expression on her face vanished as she nodded. "What?" Tony snapped into the phone the moment he flipped it open.

"Herr D'Agostino, I hope I did not bother you." Smidt's voice was strangely distorted as it came through the phone's speaker, as if she was in a small, empty room.

"You did, actually," Tony replied. "I was just about to make love to my wife, so I _really _hope you're not calling to jerk me around."

"That is my job!" Ziva exclaimed loudly before laughing. Oddly enough, her bland expression did not change a bit, despite the sounds of hilarity emerging from her mouth.

"I have spoken with my associates," Smidt announced, "and they are willing to pay the amount you specified."

"The final amount," Tony interjected, "not my initial offer. My time is expensive."

"Of course." Smidt sounded vaguely annoyed when she continued. "We will need proof that you actually possess the item before we proceed. Moving this much money around draws unwanted attention."

"I need a couple of weeks," Tony said calmly. His heart was thumping hard in his chest.

"You shall have them," Smidt replied. "We shall be waiting to hear from you, Herr D'Agostino." The line went dead and Tony looked up.

"Looks like we're in business," he said as he tossed the phone onto the dresser. "Time to get up, sweet cheeks," Tony said with an exaggerated leer. "We need to lose our shadows and go talk to some people about our next move."

"Can it wait?" Ziva asked with an evil smile. "You _did _say that you were about to make love to your wife…" She flipped the sheets away, revealing her body in all its naked glory.

"You are an evil, _evil _woman," he told her sometime later. All he wanted to do now was roll over and take a nice, long nap instead of spending several hours running all over a German city in an attempt to ditch the idiots following them. Hopefully, she knew some way to contact Michael and let him know they were on the move because, short of a phone call or smoke signals, Tony didn't have a clue.

"Shower," she said, shoving him off the bed and in the direction of the bathroom. Tony grunted and obeyed. When he heard her pad silently after him, he wanted to sigh. Did she not understand that he was human? Even the Big D needed recovery time!

His dismay vanished the moment she pulled the door to the bathroom shut. Nodding in the direction of the shower, she squatted in front of the wide sink – which gave him a very … interesting view, given her unclothed state – and reached to pull something out of concealment from behind the plumbing. Tony blinked in surprise at the sight of the tiny phone – obviously she _hadn't _picked this hotel at random – but shook his head and turned on the water. He waited until the temperature was just right before climbing in. Several minutes later, Ziva followed suit.

"Train station," she whispered to him as she began soaping up his chest. "Thirty minutes." Just as his brain began to shut down, she slid by him to hog the bulk of the lousy water pressure spewing from the showerhead. Her wet hair slapped him in the face as she swung her head back and forth.

And Tony just _knew _she was doing it on purpose.

Exactly thirty-one and a half minutes later, they were aboard a train as it prepared to pull out of the station. Tony admired the first class accommodations, noting at once that there wasn't anyone else in the entire section. When he caught sight of Moshe boarding a different car – that boy really needed to work on his ability to blend in; even McGee was better at looking inconspicuous – he had expected Michael and the rest of the team to be here, not to find it … empty. He _really _hoped that the U.S. government hadn't just bought thirty-nine Business Premier seats for two people. That would be absolute hell to explain on a travel voucher.

Ziva paused at the entrance to the train car and pulled a laptop case out from where it had been stowed by someone else, probably the ever-sneaky Michael. She dropped into the nearest available seat, reaching over to the window and pulling the curtain down. With a smirk at his expression, she gestured for him to take the seat next to her while she powered up the laptop. It was a MacBook, he noticed, and booted up quickly. Ziva typed in a quick password and, a moment later, the monitor split-screened. On the left, Director Eli David stared out dispassionately, while on the right, Director Shepard stared at the screen with frightening intensity.

"I swear," Tony mumbled, "if this thing self-destructs in five seconds, we're going to have words."

"You have something to report, Agent DiNozzo?" Director Shepard demanded.

"Apart from admitting that you absconded with my officer," Eli said flatly. "Again."

"Yeah," Tony said hesitantly before quickly shaking the moment away. "I've made contact and they've taken the bait."

"But they want the actual database," Ziva added. She didn't even try to explain her presence and flatly ignored her father's steady gaze.

"Then you are to get it for them," Shepard said harshly. "Do _whatever_ is necessary to gain access to this organization, Agent DiNozzo, Officer David." She reached forward and her side of the screen went blank.

"I will contact Officer Rivkin with additional information," Director David said before he too ended the transmission. Tony stared at the dark screen for a moment before giving Ziva a wide-eyed look.

"Is it just me," he wondered, "or was she _really _intense?"

"She was," Ziva agreed with a frown. "I have not seen that look in her eye since Cairo." There was a hint of worry in her voice, though Tony doubted that most people would have even noticed it. He wondered when he became so familiar with her mannerisms that he could read her this easily.

"So," Tony said, "we have to steal one of the U.S. Navy's most highly guarded secret projects to maintain our cover." He shook his head. "How the hell are we going to do that?" Ziva smiled.

"Very carefully," she said.


	57. The Widening Gyre, 7: Leon

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: **Nothing particularly offensive about this chapter apart from Leon Vance being written in a sympathetic light instead of the Palpatine-esq heavy he's so often portrayed as. I figured, what the heck? I managed to pull it off with Eli David and Michael Rivkin, so why not Vance too?

A little surprised at the lack of response to the previous chapter. Too fluffy?

* * *

**Leon**

The day had started out bad, and only gotten worse.

His son was being particularly difficult this morning – Jared was still throwing a fit over Leon's refusal to buy an X-Box for no reason beyond the boy wanting it – and Jackie's morbid amusement over her husband's apparent inability to talk to their son without it becoming a shouting match grated. Several years older than her brother and just entering her teenage years, Lily had joined in the morning's festivities by declaring her intention to get another piercing, this one in a location that Leon and Jackie flatly forbade … which led to _another _argument. By the time he managed to get out of the house and into his car, Leon was convinced that his family was actively trying to drive him mad. This simply _had _to be their revenge for his uprooting them from their relatively happy and stable home in California so he could take the deputy director's job here in D.C.

He hit the worst of the morning rush hour traffic on his way to the Navy Yard and spent nearly ninety minutes behind a mini-van whose driver seemed incapable of accelerating faster than ten miles an hour. It was almost nine o'clock when he reached the office, two hours after his usual report time, and Leon grimaced at the stack of messages already waiting for him. His secretary was missing – not an unusual occurrence; the woman was almost always away from her desk when he needed her, which frankly did not make him particularly interested in keeping her around – and the phone on her desk began ringing even before he put down his briefcase.

It was on days like this that he wished he hadn't stopped smoking.

Special Agent Gibbs walked by the open door to his office, a fierce scowl on his face, and Leon frowned the moment he realized the man had just come from Director Shepard's office. The relationship (if it could be called that) between Gibbs and Shepard remained the principal topic of watercooler gossip, and Vance still wasn't sure if he believed half of what he'd overheard. He knew that the two had a past, but from how Jethro reacted to DiNozzo's 'resignation' and subsequent disappearance, Leon seriously doubted that any feelings Gibbs might have for the director at the moment were warm ones.

Thoughts of DiNozzo and the operation that the agent was on led Vance to checking his secure email account where he saw that Eli had scheduled a secure video conference with him in – he checked his watched and cursed softly – ten minutes. With his secretary still AWOL, Leon pulled the door to his office shut, locked it, and walked toward MTAC. Glancing to his left, he caught sight of Gibbs arguing with two of the three members of his team …

Officer David was nowhere to be seen.

His steps faltering, Leon hesitated at the railing that overlooked the bullpen and gave the major crimes response team's assigned area a quick once-over. From this angle, he had a clear field of view of the Mossad liaison's desk which allowed him to see that even her computer was powered down. Knowing her work ethic, he found it extremely unlikely that she would be absent for two days in a row without a very good reason … or an assignment. He frowned, his eyes meeting those of an angry Gibbs, and suddenly knew that she wouldn't be in for a while. The expression on Jethro's face said it all: Mossad had, once again, recalled Ziva for a mission without bothering to tell him or give NCIS any warning.

It was yet another reminder that the position of liaison officer was intrinsically an unstable one. While Ziva seemed trustworthy enough – Gibbs trusted her, which said a whole lot if one knew the man – her first loyalty was and would likely always be Mossad. And that wasn't even taking into account the fact that her father's appointment as director depended upon the whim of the current Israeli prime minister. Eli David had already held the position longer than any man save Isser Harel, who led Mossad for eleven years during the nineteen fifties and sixties, and, if history had taught Leon anything, it was that men with the kind of power David wielded had as much to fear from their allies as they did their enemies.

With a solemn nod to Gibbs, Leon turned away and resumed his short walk to MTAC, dismissing the technicians on duty the moment he was inside. Their security clearances simply weren't high enough to observe this conversation and Vance had no desire to wait until he could track down someone whose _was _authorized to observe the conversation that was about to take place.

_"Shalom, _Eli," he said the moment the Mossad director's larger-than-life image appeared on the large screen.

_"Shalom," _Director David replied. He looked … different than normal, though Leon couldn't tell if it was exhaustion, frustration, annoyance or worry that put the dark circles underneath his old friend's eyes. "You are aware of the latest developments regarding Operation Kismet?" he asked. Vance frowned.

Kismet was the name assigned to Agent DiNozzo's undercover mission to infiltrate the illegal arms network he and Rivkin had been trying to take down last year, though why Shepard selected that particular code phrase Leon didn't know. Although he technically oversaw the entire operation, Vance's involvement was fairly hands-off. With a well-trained professional like Rivkin acting as the case officer (or _katsa_, as Mossad called them) for an equally proficient DiNozzo, Leon generally didn't _need _to get involved for any reason other than approving the occasional intel request or arranging for satellite coverage. It was the best way to run an op like this: stand back and let the people in the field who knew what they were doing work. If they needed help, they would ask for it.

"What developments specifically are you referring to?" Leon asked, his bland tone not giving anything away. From the familiar expression on Eli's face, Vance doubted the man was talking about something that Leon already knew about. Once, this could have been considered a game that they played against one another – deduce how much information the other had at their disposal without revealing sources – but as they each rose in rank in their respective organizations, the stakes had grown much, much higher.

"Domino," Eli said flatly. He shook his head in resignation. "I do not see how Anthony or Ziva can pull this off." Leon's eyes narrowed.

"Hold on," he said. "Did you say _Ziva?_ As in your daughter?" Eli nodded and, although he tried to hold it back, Vance smirked. Were the situation not so dire, he might have even laughed. "Having problems controlling her again, Eli?"

"Ziva has always been a rebellious girl," the Mossad director retorted. "This is no different than your daughter wanting her tongue pierced."

"It _is _different, Eli," Leon said, not wanting to think about how the man knew about Lily's latest demand. He made a mental note to do another bug sweep once he got home that night. "Her presence was never approved for this op. If she shows up out of nowhere, DiNozzo's cover could be compromised."

"It will not be," David insisted. "I … anticipated that Ziva would be … difficult and had a cover identity already prepared for her."

"Without consulting me?" Leon asked. "That's dangerous, Eli." The Mossad director grunted sourly. "This can't be going over well with Ayalon," Vance added, referencing the man who oversaw the _Komemiute_ Division inside Mossad. Officially, Ziva was still a member of Ehud Ayalon's department and he had been quite displeased when Eli sent her to America.

"Let me worry about him, Leon." Eli grimaced. "I _am _concerned about Director Shepard's remarks to Anthony and Ziva regarding Domino," he added with a tight frown. "Encouraging my daughter to steal something to maintain her cover _never _ends well."

"What?" Vance stared at the screen with open shock on his face that he didn't even try to conceal. Suddenly, his old friend's misgivings made absolute sense.

"I see she has not included you in the decision-making process once more," David remarked with a shake of his head. "This is very troubling, Leon."

"Let me get back to you," Vance said darkly. He was turning away even before he completed the sentence and, clearly recognizing his mood, Eli killed the transmission on his end without comment.

Gibbs was waiting outside MTAC when he emerged, but Leon barely gave him a second look before striding toward the director's office. He heard Jethro's unintelligible squawk of surprise at being ignored – there were few things Gibbs hated more – but Vance was focused only on the thoughts racing through his mind. What was she thinking? There was absolutely no way in hell that the SecNav would authorize putting Domino in danger like this, not even for a chance to smash open what was beginning to look like a _major _international arms smuggling network.

"We need to talk," Leon said without preamble as he swept into Shepard's office, pushing the door shut behind him. He caught sight of the surprise on Gibbs' face when he closed the door in his face and could only imagine the man's expression when Vance locked it. From where she sat behind her desk, Director Shepard looked up with just as much disbelief at his unexpected actions. This was the sort of thing Jethro did, not him.

"Come in, Leon," Shepard said, an edge in her voice. She pulled her glasses off and placed them down in front of her. "I hope this won't take long," she declared. "I'm briefing the SecNav in an hour."

"Are you planning on mentioning that one of your agents might be stealing Domino?" Leon asked softly. "On _your _orders?" To her credit, she merely blinked before frowning.

"I issued no such instructions," she replied. They locked eyes for a moment.

"Director David thinks you did," Vance said darkly. "And if _he _thinks you did, then you know his daughter does too."

"Don't be ridiculous," Shepard said. "My instructions were intentionally vague." She flashed a smile, though it didn't touch her eyes. "Ziva has a history of creatively interpreting her orders," she pointed out. "She wouldn't be foolish enough to try and steal something like Domino."

"And if you're wrong?" Leon leaned forward over her desk, using his fists to steady himself. "If they decide to make a play for it?" Shepard's response shook him.

"That depends on whether they're successful or not."

Vance rocked back on his heels, unable to believe what he was hearing. During his long and checkered career in black ops, he had made more than his fair share of hard calls and dangerous decisions, but this? This was gambling with U.S. national security in the interests of completing a mission that was, in the grand scheme of things, fairly inconsequential. There were certain things intelligence organizations did _not _do and this certainly met that criteria.

"And if they _aren't _successful," Leon said flatly, "you'll have just sent two agents to their deaths." He shook his head. "This is going too far," he began.

_"I _will say when it's too far, Leon," the director replied, her voice cold. "You vouched for Agent DiNozzo's abilities," she said, "and I trust Officer David implicitly." The frown on her face transformed her into someone sinister and, for the first time, Vance realized why she had been so successful in her career as an intelligence operative. This was a woman who was capable of doing whatever it took to accomplish her objective, who had no qualms about sacrificing agents in the field like they were pawns on a chessboard. The intensity in her eyes caused him to recoil.

"If that is all, Deputy Director," Shepard said, her words a clear dismissal. Leon frowned.

"You realize I have to report this to the SecNav," he said. She frowned, the tightness in her face reflecting her obvious annoyance at him following protocol, and he realized how well Gibbs had taught her. Just like her mentor, she thought the rules didn't apply to her or that she could discard them whenever she felt like it for the sake of what she felt was the greater good. People like her were dangerous, _especially _when they were in a position of power.

"That won't be necessary," she replied. "Both Agent DiNozzo and Officer David know how dangerous it would be to let Domino fall into the wrong hands. I'm sure they will find an alternate means to accomplish the objective." The director pinched the bridge of her nose. "I will make sure to let them know that stealing it is not an option."

"Don't bother," Leon said. He sincerely doubted she had any plan at all to tell them that. "I'll pass that on to Director David."

"You do that," Shepard said, frowning once again. Vance backed away, pausing at the door to give her a quick glance. She was watching him coolly, the fingers of her left hand kneading her temple, as if trying to ward off a headache. Shaking his head with disbelief at how far she was apparently willing to go, Leon opened the door and walked out of the director's office.

He didn't look back.

* * *

**A/N #2: **Regarding the Domino plot: I'm going to borrow elements from the various seasons as appropriate, but don't expect a direct rip-off. I can barely recall what exactly the canon Domino was supposed to do (ignoring that it was just a McGuffin intended to root out a traitor), so I just used the core concept and went in my own direction.


	58. The Widening Gyre, 8: Jethro

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: **Due to the nature of the plot, the rating of "Transitional States" will likely, by necessity, be upgraded to **M **in the future. Some of the plot elements on the horizon are _not _suitable for children. Just FYI.

* * *

**Jethro**

There was something going on with Jenny.

He couldn't put his finger on what it was exactly, but Jethro knew her well enough to recognize that something wasn't right. On no less than a half dozen occasions in the last week alone, Gibbs had noticed her display hints of physical discomfort during meetings, as if she was experiencing painful muscle spasms in her arms or legs. With the slight weight loss she'd been showing – not that Jethro would admit to having noticed such a thing – he had chalked those pains up to a new gym regimen that she was still adjusting to.

Combined with a couple other factors that Gibbs had noticed in recent days, though – Jenny seemed to be constantly tired, visited the bathroom more frequently than before, appeared to have a constant headache, and even the occasional hint of balance problems – the muscle pains added up to something else entirely, something he wasn't sure he wanted to really consider. The stress of the position she'd accepted only seemed to exacerbate the situation and, as much as he wanted to confront her, Jethro knew she wouldn't respond well to his blunt questions about her fitness for the job. She already dealt with lingering chauvinism at NCIS on a daily basis, but for him to ask if she was ill? That would cause all sorts of problems he wasn't sure he wanted to deal with at the moment.

From the way he'd observed Leon Vance's interactions with her the day before, Gibbs also suspected that there was something else going on work-related causing serious problems. In all of the years he'd known Vance, Jethro had never before seen the man react the way he did yesterday, whether it was the storming out of MTAC and slamming the director's door in Gibbs' face, or the way the deputy director remained out of the office ever since. Vance and Shepard had never been at odds like this before, and Gibbs couldn't help but fear it had something to do with Tony's op. The op that Jenny steadfastly refused to read him into.

Damn her.

"Go home," Jethro abruptly ordered the remains of his team. McGee looked up from where he was hunched over his desk, engrossed in research into a cold case, while Lee almost sprinted toward the elevator in her haste to get out of the office. Gibbs watched her dart away, grunting softly in slight annoyance at how quickly Michelle reacted. He knew that he had been pushing them hard in the last few days – his worry over whatever it was that Tony and Ziva were neck deep in made him short-tempered and more terse than normal – but she could have at least made it _look _like she wanted to work here.

"That means you, McGee," Gibbs said when he noticed that Tim had returned his full attention to the case file spread out over his desk. "Don't make me call Abby." McGee visibly flinched at the threat – it hadn't escaped Jethro's notice that, since the death of Tim's girlfriend over a month earlier, Abby had embarked upon an almost single-handed effort to help McGee recover. Whenever she wasn't hard at work in her lab, she could be found at Tim's side, urging him to join her for a concert, or a movie, or dinner, or bowling, or – at least once – a rousing game of paintball. While McGee certainly appreciated her efforts, he was also starting to feel stifled by her constant presence.

"That's not necessary, Boss," McGee said quickly. He flipped the folder closed and slid it into one of his drawers before turning to grab his backpack. Gibbs watched silently, knowing that if he walked away and trusted that the younger agent would actually go home, Tim would wait until the coast was clear and go back to work.

Jethro didn't want to consider how much Tim was beginning to resemble him.

They shared a silent elevator ride down to the main lobby and Gibbs waited until McGee had left the building before making a quick stop at the check in desk. With a quick conversation and a promise of future alcohol, he arranged for the guard on duty to call him immediately if Tim made a sudden reappearance in the office later. Outside, Jethro could taste the hint of rain in the air and glanced quickly to where McGee's rental car was parked. He gave Tim a flat look and a head shake, which prompted the younger man to visibly sigh and start the engine of his car.

Holly was currently on TDY to Fort Drum in New York, investigating a suspicious death linked to one of the infantry brigades assigned there, so Gibbs drove straight home, not even bothering to stop for dinner. His hands itched to feel sandpaper and wood once more, and he hoped that a few hours in solitude would allow him to recover the equilibrium that had eluded him since he watched Tony disappear into the elevator eight months ago.

Even before he pushed open the front door of his house, Gibbs knew that there was something amiss. It was something intangible, a sense that the very air in his home had been disturbed by someone not him, and he reacted instantly. Drawing the Sig from its holster at his waist, he thumbed the safety off and crept forward, straining to hear some sign of the intruder. A subtle noise drew his attention to the stairs leading down into the basement and he frowned. From experience, Jethro knew that anyone down there already knew he was here so he abandoned stealth in favor of boldness. Moments later, he shook his head and holstered the pistol.

Standing slightly too close together for them to be _just_ partners, Tony and Ziva were leaning over the hand-crafted tool box that doubled as a table, studying something they had spread out over the flat surface and speaking in soft tones. Neither appeared to react to his arrival and the subtle clearing of a throat to Gibbs' direct left caused him to glance in that direction. Michael Rivkin sat against the wall, mostly concealed by the boat, and Gibbs had a sudden flash of how Ari Haswari had hidden in almost that same spot.

"Oh, hey, Boss," DiNozzo said without actually turning around. "You should really think about locking your doors."

"Not worth the trouble," Gibbs replied. "And I'm not your boss anymore." He strode toward the two, skirting around the half-finished boat and noticing another young man stretched out beside the hull. Unlike Rivkin, this man looked to be asleep, although Gibbs actually doubted it. "I thought the _two _of you were in Europe," Jethro said, giving Ziva a tight frown. She shrugged.

"We were," Tony said. "Now we're not." He finally glanced around and Gibbs frowned at the light beard DiNozzo had cultivated. After a heartbeat, Jethro decided it looked ridiculous on the younger man. "By the way," DiNozzo said with a smirk, "we owe you for a couple of beers. Hope you don't mind."

"Gibbs," Ziva said by way greeting. He studied her for a moment and then lightly smacked her upside the head. A strangled gasp escaped the 'sleeping' man and Gibbs could see that the boy was staring at him with wide eyes.

"You know better than to leave like that," Jethro said with faux annoyance. "Abby has been frantic."

"It was necessary," Ziva replied before nodding toward Tony. "He needed help."

"I tried to get her to leave, Boss," DiNozzo said. The look he shot the slim woman was half affectionate and half frustrated, and Gibbs easily remembered glancing at both Shannon and Jenny the same way. "But you know how she is."

"I do." Gibbs took a step closer to them to get a better view of what they were studying. To his surprise, both of them shifted, effectively blocking the blueprints – he thought they were of a building, but couldn't be sure – from sight. "You going to get out of the way?" he asked with a scowl.

"Afraid we can't, Boss," Tony replied. "The director is already pissed at me 'cause of Ziva. I can only imagine what she'd do if we involved you too."

"Uh, huh." Gibbs crossed his arms. "If you didn't want me involved, DiNozzo," he said, "then why are you in my house?"

"Because we needed a good place to lay down while we plan," Ziva said.

"Lay low," Tony corrected immediately. She shrugged.

"This was not an attempt to recruit you, Gibbs," Ziva continued. "In fact, it is best you remain unaware of our objectives should our plans fail."

"Which means you're going to be doing something illegal," Jethro guessed. "At Norfolk, probably, which is why you're using my house as a staging base."

"You can stop fishing, Boss," DiNozzo said. "We're not going to tell you."

"Perhaps we should." The comment came from Rivkin and Gibbs was surprised to realize that the man had crossed the basement without a sound. "Agent Gibbs could be a valuable asset."

"You don't get a vote, Officer Rivkin," Tony said harshly. He glared at the Mossad officer, eyes glittering with anger, and Jethro frowned. From what he remembered, the two had been friends before this op began.

"Tony." Ziva's soft voice and her hand on DiNozzo's arm caused Tony to look away from where Rivkin stood. "Michael was playing demon's advocate," she continued. "We should hear him out."

"Devil's advocate," DiNozzo corrected absently before nodding. He did not look at Rivkin, however.

"We have been tasked to acquire an item," Rivkin said calmly. "Thanks to your director, we know where it is located and the dispensation of the guards. Unfortunately, those guards will not be disposed to turn over this item."

"So you're going to sneak in and steal it. Can I guess the guards are Marines?" Both Ziva and Rivkin nodded. Gibbs shook his head. "Well then," he said, "it depends on how important this thing is."

"Pretty damned important," Tony muttered. "Important enough to kill for." He shook his head. "Remember Domino?" he asked a moment later.

Icy shock washed over Gibbs.

"You can't be serious," he said harshly. "I don't know what you're playing at here, DiNozzo, but Domino is too important for national security to be risked like this."

"Do you think I don't know that?" Tony demanded, anger flaring up in his face. "I lay awake at night worrying that this op has already gone too far, but the director gave us explicit orders to use it as bait."

"Jenny approved this?" Gibbs frowned and glanced away. If nothing else, this certainly explained why Vance was so angry at her, but Jethro couldn't see the SecNav giving his okay.

"My contact in this organization is a techie," DiNozzo said, "so passing off a cheap rip-off won't work." He exchanged a quick glance with Ziva. "What I'd _like _to do," Tony said, "is grab this thing and then have McGee and Harari clone its programming or something."

"So you could stash the real one someplace safe," Jethro finished with an approving nod. "That makes a little more sense."

"Imagine my surprise," Tony continued, angling a harsh look in Rivkin's direction, "when I learn that Tim isn't at a hundred percent. One would think that I might need to _know _something like that." Rivkin flinched, but Tony wasn't done. "I mean, sure, it was fine for me to learn that the Frog was dead, but the important facts about _how _he died and _who _shot him just happened to be conveniently left out."

"Tony." Once again, Ziva was the voice of reason and her low voice caused DiNozzo to glower. He turned back to the blueprints, leaving her to give Rivkin a discreet nod. In response, the man turned and walked quickly toward the stairs leading to the house proper, pausing only long enough to gesture for the young Mossad officer on the floor to follow him. The moment they were gone, Ziva blew out a frustrated breath. "You need to stop," she told Tony. "He was doing his job."

"Is part of his job withholding vital information?" DiNozzo demanded crossly. Ziva was undeterred and crossed her arms, pinning him with an equally fierce look.

"Sometimes," she said coldly, "it is." With her right hand, she tapped the blueprints hard. "The mission takes priority over your ridiculous urinating contest with Michael." Tony opened his mouth, no doubt to correct her error, but obviously decided against speaking and instead lapsed into a sullen silence.

"Good decision," Gibbs told him before shaking his head. "Take it from me: arguing with the missus never ends well."

"Especially if she's a ninja assassin," Tony grumbled. Jethro's eyes widened slightly and he wondered if DiNozzo realized the implications of what he'd just admitted to. From the expression on Ziva's face – she reminded him of the proverbial cat who just ate the canary – _she _at least did.

"So," Gibbs said, eyeing the beard on DiNozzo's face with distaste. "Who am I working with today? Since you can't be Tony DiNozzo." To his surprise, Ziva started to grin.

"Tomás D'Agostino," Tony said, shooting the Israeli a flat look that she promptly ignored.

"And I," Ziva said, "am Lisa Stavi D'Agostino." She snickered at Gibbs' grunt. "His fourth wife," she added, "though he thought we were divorced." Jethro gave Tony a glance, noting how the younger man refused to make eye contact. It suddenly occurred to Gibbs that Ziva had specifically identified herself as his _fourth _wife; the similarities between DiNozzo's cover story and Jethro's own life were too obvious to ignore, but Gibbs didn't know how to respond. He would be a liar if he said that he was not at least slightly honored that the younger man would use him as a template, but the memory of Tony's 'I'm trying not to be you' comment from months ago made him reconsider his initial impulse to mock the younger man for not having a better imagination.

"Tommy and Lisa," he stated instead with a smirk. "You do realize that McGee is never going to let you live this down, right?"

"It's Tomás," DiNozzo insisted, "but yeah, the thought _did _cross my mind." He ran his fingers through his hair before gesturing toward the floor plans. "I know this is blatantly illegal, Boss," he said, "but you know Norfolk better than either of us and we could really use your help."

"You can't steal this thing, DiNozzo," Gibbs said flatly. "I don't care what the director said. It's too important and we can't put it at risk like this."

"Yeah. I know." Tony blew out a frustrated breath. The two men exchanged looks and Jethro could almost sense an all-night brainstorming session approaching. It was an old habit of theirs, established even before Kate joined the team. During a particularly troubling case, DiNozzo would show up in the basement, sometimes with beer and pizza, and the two would go over the evidence again and again until something stood out. "There's got to be a way to do this," Tony grumbled.

"All right," Gibbs said with a frown. He shifted closer so he could get a look at the blueprints laid out on the table. "Walk me through what you've got and we'll see what we can come up with."

"If you do not mind," Ziva interjected before Tony could respond, "I would like to use your shower." At her side, Tony smirked, causing the Israeli to shoot him a smile before adding something in Hebrew. DiNozzo coughed in an especially lame attempt to cover up his surprise at her remarks. To Jethro's surprise, Tony then retorted in the same language, though his pronunciation was not quite as smooth or practiced. Whatever he said, though, it caused the Israeli to grin broadly.

Gibbs sighed.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

**A/N #2: **Regarding Director Shepard, I wouldn't say that she's the "bad guy" per se, merely ... obsessed with leaving her mark on the world before she dies. Unfortunately, as we saw in season 4, she has a tendency to suffer from what fighter pilots would call 'target fixation.'

Re: MacGuffin - it is is "a plot element that catches the viewers' attention or drives the plot of a work of fiction." (from Wiki) Think the briefcase in _Ronin _or _Pulp Fiction_, or the Ark of the Covenant in _Raiders of the Lost Ark._ Ultimately, it isn't all that important but everybody wants it for some reason. My version of Domino is thus: I'm not sure if I ever actually say what it's _for. ;-)_

Re: character POV. A very long time ago, I attended a writing seminar where the author speaking made a comment that has stuck with me and affected how I approach these sorts of things. Put simply, every character believes that they are the Hero of the story and that should affect how they view their surroundings. There are **_very _**few people who think of themselves as Evil or Bad, and humans have an excellent ability to rationalize anything they do as necessary. I think me keeping that in mind may be why I am generally successful in crafting the voices of characters...


	59. The Widening Gyre, 9: Tony

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: **Due to the nature of the plot, the rating of "Transitional States" will likely, by necessity, be upgraded to **M **in the future. Some of the plot elements on the horizon are _not _suitable for children. Just FYI.

I'm taking some liberties here with both the vehicles used and Norfolk Naval Station since everything I know about either is from internet research. Any errors are unintentional and I would greatly appreciate them being pointed out in the interests of accuracy. I am also exercising NCIS & Hollywood logic when it comes to some of the computer elements contained below; yeah, I know it really wouldn't work like this, but they routinely do things on the show that _real _computers can't do, so roll with it. Hollywood Rules, if you will.

Also, my version of Domino is **NOT **the same one in canon (the plans for American response in the Middle East.) I used the name and made it something else entirely.

* * *

**Tony**

This wasn't going to be easy.

Tucked in an unobtrusive corner of the Naval Station in Norfolk, the building that housed Domino looked very much like any other on this block, with no immediate indications that it was more than just another office. Even the sign outside was designed to deter interest in the most subtle of ways; after all, who wanted to waste much time at the base headquarters for Navy Supply Information Systems Activity, or NAVSISA as it was known among the officers and sailors of the Fleet? Just looking at the dull as dirt name made Tony want a nap.

Which was, he supposed, entirely the point.

Like most of the buildings it shared this street with, the NAVSISA office was a two-story complex with very few windows, a cramped parking space inevitably filled to capacity regardless of what time of day it was, and a crumbling exterior in desperate need of refurbishment. The Marines assigned to protect this deceptively uninteresting building were nowhere in sight, although Tony knew they were there, keeping an eye out and waiting to spring into action at a moment's notice. If Gibbs was right – and he usually was, dammit – there were at least fifteen of them in the building at any given moment and they were all well-trained bad asses, ready and able to lay the smack down on anyone stupid enough to try and break into their duty station.

Fortunately, Tony had brought a couple of his own well-trained bad asses to even the odds. Just in case.

For three days, they had staked out the NAVSISA building, relying primarily on discreetly placed video cameras to observe the routines and habits of the personnel assigned to the building since a manned stakeout would easily alert the protectors of the Domino system. By day two, they had already identified that making a stealth assault at night was simply not going to work as the number of guards assigned to the building doubled. At no time did the Marines present appear to relax; it was as if they seemed to be _expecting _a night time assault. There were indications of concealed explosives set up outside the building, with well-hidden tripwires of both the physical and laser-based variety, so a frontal assault would be virtual suicide. And, in a coincidence that absolutely convinced Tony that God enjoyed laughing at him, DiNozzo further recognized the gunnery sergeant in charge of the entire security force. He had run into Miguel Rodriguez again just over a year earlier aboard the U.S.S. _Enterprise_ and Tony knew that the man would immediately recognize him, scratchy beard or no scratchy beard.

With a night op out of the question, the only other option was to hit the facility during the day in such a way so as to avoid having the base locked down afterward and that had its own set of complications. During regular work hours, reinforcements were only minutes away and, while the computer techs that did the work on Domino during duty hours weren't Navy SEALs or Force Recon commandos, it really didn't take a lot of work or training to push an alarm button that would _summon_ the heavy hitters.

All of which led to their current difficulty. If they couldn't hit the facility at night, and they couldn't strike during the day, and it was _simply _unacceptable for there to be a single casualty on either side, then what were they to do? The answer, it turned out, was simple.

They wouldn't hit the facility at all, but rather, force the guards to relocate Domino and seize it while it was on the move.

Convincing the paranoid guardians that the location of their sensitive item was not only compromised but vulnerable turned out to be fairly easy. A concentrated cyber-attack by both Moshe Harari and Tim McGee (who turned up one night at Gibbs' house unexpectedly while they were planning, which led to his recruitment into the op against Tony's wishes) penetrated the Pentagon's mainframe and left a trail of virtual bread crumbs straight to the classified reports on Domino's location. Although he generally trusted his Israeli allies, Tony also took another precaution by having McGee double and triple-check all of Harari's work; DiNozzo seriously doubted that the SecNav or Director Shepard would appreciate him letting a Mossad hacker download U.S. Navy secrets or set up a secret backdoor that could later be used to remotely access the mainframe. While they might be allies, they were still operatives of a foreign government, after all.

Initially, Tony was worried that the Marines in the NAVSISA building might relocate Domino via helicopter or ship, but Gibbs – who had, oddly enough, sat back and allowed DiNozzo to run this op without trying to take it over – pointed out that moving the item in that way would draw too much attention. Sure enough, four Mark 23 MTVR 7 ton trucks showed up, complete with cargo body perimeter armor that had been developed, Ziva declared proudly, by the Israeli company, Plasan. Only one of the trucks was necessary, so the other three were obviously intended as a diversionary measure, some sleight of hand that would hopefully conceal the movements of the real target.

The presence of _four _vehicles led to another complication: their team was, by necessity, a small one and they could not cover each of the trucks. It was McGee who came up with the solution once he was filled in on the specifics of their target. Domino was constructed using the recently released Cray XT5 supercomputer as a template and, according to the information Director Shepard had provided to them, powering down the system could lead to a major loss of data so they would likely transport it with a portable power source. By necessity, a computer like this also utilized some sort of liquid cooling technology – Tony's eyes crossed when McGeek started spewing technobabble that was ostensibly intended to be an explanation but only served to confuse – which would need to be functioning at the same time.

"The infrared signature of the correct truck will be a lot cooler than the decoys," McGee finally translated. With the cameras already in place, they could identify the correct target and ignore the others.

Tony had wondered why he hadn't just said that in the first place.

All of which put them here, crouching in the dark while they waited for the trucks to move out. There were only four of them on the assault team – Tony, Ziva, Mike and Livni – with Moshe and McGee in the back of a van somewhere in the city of Norfolk with Gibbs at the wheel. Tony had made a conscious decision to exclude his old boss from as much as he could manage for a number of reasons, not the least of which being that they might have to fire on Marines in the very near future. And that didn't even take into account how many laws Gibbs was breaking by not arresting each and every one of them the moment he found out what they were doing.

The earpiece clicked once, an indication from Moshe that their targets were on the move. To avoid their voices being captured or recorded, Ziva had suggested a nonverbal means of communication sometimes used by Mossad teams that required them to simply 'key' their respective microphones. Once she explained it, Officer Livni had jokingly referred to it as similar to how 'Captain Pike communicated.' This immediately prompted McGee to give him a wide-eyed look, followed by a grin. The two then talked for nearly fifteen minutes with Moshe joining in soon afterward, and it wasn't until one of them mentioned Kirk and Spock that Tony realized they weren't referencing a _real _person.

He came very close to shooting the three of them in that moment.

As he waited, Tony began opening and closing his hands to ease the tension tightening up his body. He adjusted the protective gas mask concealing his features from sight before shifting the pack strapped to his back into a more comfortable position and double-checking the load in his shotgun. If it came to a shoot-out, they would be firing only flexible baton rounds (better known as bean bag rounds) against the live ammo of any defending Marines. That was a fight DiNozzo really wanted to avoid for all sorts of reasons.

Finally, long seconds after the reveal that the MTVRs were on the move, Ziva lowered the IR binoculars and held up her hand, two fingers extended. It was the second truck. Tony nodded and keyed his throat mike twice.

Exactly as expected, the four trucks took completely different routes once they departed the building. The target vehicle turned left at the intersection – which was taking it away from where Tony and Ziva were hidden in the bushes. Moving quickly, they rolled to their feet and scrambled to the parked dirtbike half concealed against a fence. Ziva drove – which was bad enough in a car, but positively terrifying on the back of a motorcycle – and they raced toward the designated intercept point. Knowing that there were a limited number of routes out of this particular corner of the base meant there were an equally limited number of spots along the way that could be used to hit the truck.

Ziva rounded a corner at a fairly high rate of speed just as the truck slowed to a stop at an empty intersection; if they had not been trying to keep a fairly low profile (or at least as low as possible in a seven ton truck), the Marines could just disregard traffic laws and blow through the stop sign. That they didn't made them vulnerable.

Darting out of hiding places on either side of the truck, Michael and Ari – damn, Tony realized, that name wasn't getting easier to say – sprang up onto the cab. The two visible Marines didn't even have time to react before the Mossad officers aimed and fired tasers at them through the open windows. Both of the Marines reacted exactly as expected and Michael ripped open the driver's side door to shove the man behind the steering wheel out of the way.

Even as Officer Livni was dropping back to the street and unstrapping his shotgun from his back, Ziva was braking the motorcycle. Tony let himself slid off the back of the dirtbike, stumbling once as he tried to keep his balance, and pulled a pair of gas grenades from his belt. Michael had acquired them from somewhere and explained beforehand that they were an opiate-derived incapacitating agent called Kolokol-1 originally developed by the Russians. It took between one and three seconds to knock out the target …

But a _lot _could happen in that time.

Tony tossed one of the grenades to Officer Livni as the younger man rounded the cargo bed of the truck at the same moment Ziva leaped off the bike, her right hand darting into the bag strapped to her side to extract a small electronic device. Without hesitation, she planted it on the side of the truck and a trio of lights activated along the surface of the jammer, indicating it was active. A radio and GPS signal blocker, it would dazzle any 'eyes in the sky' while preventing the Marines inside from calling in reinforcements. She nodded sharply at Tony and sprang toward the closed hatch leading into the cargo bed. With an ease borne of long practice, she slid her hand into the bag, palmed a tiny pre-prepared breaching charge and planted it against the locking mechanism before ducking out of the way. The second the explosive triggered, ripping apart metal and shattering the lock, Livni was lunging forward to yank open the door and hurl his grenade inside. Tony was a half step behind him and, the moment he sent his own grenade spinning into the enclosed truck bed, he planted both hands against the door and shoved _hard _in an attempt to hold it in place.

Seconds ticked by with agonizing slowness. Behind him, Ziva had unlimbered her own shotgun and had it at the ready in case of the sudden appearance of reinforcements. Livni was clutching his weapon tightly, the barrel pointed unerringly at the closed door, and he nodded quickly at Tony's glance. DiNozzo stepped back, bringing his own weapon up to cover the door as he pulled it open.

Clouds of whatever the hell the Kolokol-1 grenades were made of curled out of the cargo bay and climbed into the sky, revealing five unconscious Marines surrounding the surprisingly large computer that was the target. Two of the jarheads had apparently been trying to reach for their radios before the opiate took effect. Livni scampered up into the bed and Tony quickly followed him, turning to offer a hand to Ziva that she accepted with a wry tilt of her head that almost made Tony laugh out loud. Instead, he grabbed the door and pulled it shut as Livni smacked his palm on the wall connecting the cargo bed with the cab. A second later, Michael applied gas and the truck jerked forward.

It had taken all of twenty seconds.

Tony suddenly felt sick. Twenty seconds to snatch one of the most important computer systems in the world. No shots were fired, no one was dead or even injured, and the precious cargo was fully intact without even a hint of damage. It wasn't that he had wanted a fight and they _had _been given inside information about the location of the target that very few people had access to … but the ease with which they had seized the truck made him seriously wonder how many other Navy secrets could be grabbed by dedicated and dangerous fanatics who wanted to hurt Americans.

_You should be happy, _Tony told himself as he glanced at the massive computer that was Domino. Not even Danny Ocean could have pulled off a caper this smooth, regardless of whether it was the 1960s version with Sinatra in the role or the 2001 remake with Clooney. Everything had gone according to plan, everyone was alive, and nobody was the wiser.

Now came the hard part.

* * *

**A/N #2: **In my previous remarks, I did not mean to sound like I was trolling for reviews, I was simply surprised at the dropoff given that it was a heavy Tony/Ziva chapter and, historically, those receive the highest response. Like all authors on this site, I'm grateful for any feedback I receive from my wonderful readers and want to take the opportunity to thank you all again. I try to respond to any questions posed to me - with someone logged in, it's obviously much easier - but want to apologize if I accidentally overlook someone. I'm still job-hunting (which sucks), getting prepared for a move at the end of this month (which also sucks), and trying to figure out how to convert this obsessive hobby o'mine into an actual job...

Of course, given how ... wonky the site has been of late, I might be delayed in actually responding to you. I haven't even received a single notice about fic updates in like forever...


	60. The Widening Gyre, 10: Ziva

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: **Due to the nature of the plot, the rating of "Transitional States" will likely, by necessity, be upgraded to **M **in the future. Some of the plot elements on the horizon are _not _suitable for children. And, if you're wondering, I _do not _write sex scenes so take that as you will. Just FYI.

I'm taking some liberties here with both the vehicles used and Norfolk Naval Station since everything I know about either is from internet research. Any errors are unintentional and I would greatly appreciate them being pointed out in the interests of accuracy. I am also exercising NCIS & Hollywood logic when it comes to some of the computer elements contained below; yeah, I know it really wouldn't work like this, but they routinely do things on the show that _real _computers can't do, so roll with it. Hollywood Rules, if you will.

* * *

**Ziva**

Ziva was worried about her partner.

Tony was already crouched near the Domino system, pulling the ruggedized laptop McGee had prepared from the backpack secured to his tactical vest with trembling hands. Tim's explanation about what made a 'supercomputer' different from a normal computer – the processing power, not the storage memory – had led to this stage of the operation. It would be impossible for them to escape undetected from the naval station with Domino, so copying the hard drive of the Cray was the only viable option.

With a grimace, Ziva tore her eyes away from Tony and refocused her attention on her own role. She knelt next to the door of the enclosed truck bed, one hand holding onto the frame of the door that was no longer capable of being shut thanks to her breaching charge, while her other clutched the pistol grip of her Benelli M1014 shotgun so tightly that she thought she could hear the tendons in her hand straining. So far, everything had gone according to plan and, in her experience, it was at this point that covert ops had the greatest chance of failure. Too often, those involved would relax their guard for a moment because they assumed everything was going to work out.

What made their situation even more tenuous, however, was the presence of the signal jammer Ziva had attached to the side of the truck before they seized it. While it had been necessary to prevent the Marines inside from calling for back-up (as well as preventing the organizing commander from actively tracking the MTVR via GPS satellite), it also eliminated their ability to check in with Gibbs. Though she concealed it behind her façade of professionalism, Ziva was concerned about Jethro and Tim's fate (and to a lesser extent, Officer Harari as well, though she still had not quite forgiven him for the crude sexual advance he had made while they were in Spain), since McGee and Moshe had been tasked to use their hacking skills to sow even more chaos into the system. This would, hopefully, give the assault team a greater window for success but it had the side effect of making the support team a target.

The ambient noises of the truck altered, warning her that Michael had taken the corner leading to their destination: a narrow alleyway between two long warehouses fairly close to the actual piers. With a teeth-rattling jerk, the truck abruptly changed direction, this time accelerating rapidly in reverse as Rivkin began backing up. Ziva glanced quickly in Tony's direction, noting how intently he was staring at the screen of the laptop. Light from the monitor of the portable computer bathed the NCIS agent, reflecting off of the lenses of his protective mask and casting distorted shadows upon the wall behind him. As if sensing her eyes on him, DiNozzo glanced up and looked at her, quickly flashing her a thumbs up signal she took to mean that McGee's preparations had paid off. The download had begun and Tony had taken his first step toward committing treason against his nation, all in the name of an undercover mission that he clearly had reservations about. And, as far as she knew, the United States still executed those it considered traitors.

Ziva looked away.

Once again, the truck jolted, though this time it was due to a sudden stop, which Ziva took as her signal to quickly shove open the door. Directly behind the Mark 23 MTVR 7 ton – and in front of her – was a closed overhead door leading into one of the naval station's dozens of warehouses. Most were still operational, but a significant number were currently in various stages of renovation or disuse. It was to these latter storage facilities that base security would look to first in their attempt to locate Domino … which was why this particular warehouse was one of the busiest during duty hours.

Ziva sprang out of the cargo bed of the truck, her weapon at the ready, and darted to the overhead door. She gave the large padlock a quick glance before reaching into one of the pockets on her tactical vest and extracting a breaching round for her shotgun. It would take too long to pick this particular lock and since time was of the essence, she smoothly ejected the bean-bag round from the Benelli, slid the slug-shot into the barrel, aimed, and fired. The lock shattered into a million pieces and Ziva pulled the door up.

To her relief, there was no immediate sign of an alarm sounding, though she knew it could be a silent one that had been tripped without her knowing. At the moment, she was more concerned about getting the MTVR out of sight, so she filed the worry about any alarms away for later. With no indication that the warehouse was occupied – it shouldn't be, not at three in the morning – Ziva gave Michael a quick hand gesture to begin backing up before she moved out of the truck's way. As soon as the MTVR was fully inside the warehouse, Ziva retrieved the bean-bag round from the ground where it had landed, grabbed the dangling rope and pulled the door down.

Officer Livni had already exited the cargo bed and taken up a defensive position several meters away from the truck, sweeping his field of fire with the barrel of his shotgun. Even at a glance, Ziva could see that the young man was rigid with tension, though that was entirely understandable. He was, after all, an agent of a foreign power involved in a mission that could easily be classified as espionage, and with the United States still waging their War on Terror, Gitmo would be the logical place for him to be sent.

And, as a Jewish operative of Mossad amidst Jihadist Muslims, he would not last very long…

Michael appeared a moment later, his own shotgun at the ready, and he automatically headed for a stack of pallets to use as cover. They were nearly three meters away from Livni and faced the opposite direction, but provided Rivkin with an excellent view of the rest of the warehouse. He crouched behind the pallets before nodding once to Ziva. She returned the gesture before turning and climbing back into the cargo bed. Tony had not moved and, at her approach, held up both hands in a clear signal of how much time remained until the download was complete.

Ten minutes.

Ziva cursed under her breath. There was no way they would be able to remain here for that long, not without being detected or getting involved in a firefight that they could ill afford to engage in. Transport of a precious cargo like Domino would be on a _very _strict time table and the moment this vehicle dropped off the grid, a tactical response would be initiated. The other three trucks would immediately turn around since their purpose at concealment had obviously failed, and a full base lockdown was probably already being instituted. Soon, helicopters would be in the air and it would not take long for satellite resources to be brought online … if they were not already active. No, they did not _have _ten minutes.

So they needed a distraction.

Leaping out of the cargo bed, Ziva sprinted to Michael's side, her sudden haste drawing the attention of all three men. She crouched alongside Rivkin, grabbed his right hand, and began tapping out a message in Morse code.

_Need ten, _she informed him. _Remember_ _Damascus?_ Michael nodded and started to stand. _No casualties, _Ziva insisted even though it probably was not necessary. Rivkin stared at her for a moment and, through the lenses of his protective mask, she could see him roll his eyes. Without reply, he darted to where Livni crouched, gestured for the younger man to follow him, and disappeared around several stacked crates.

Time crawled by slowly as Ziva knelt behind the pallets Michael had chosen to hide behind. She fought the urge to fidget or to push her sleeve up and glance at her watch, instead focusing on trying to watch all lanes of approach to the parked MTVR. At the moment, she was the only line of defense Tony had.

A hollow boom echoed through the empty warehouse, rattling the floor and shaking many of the shelves. Ziva winced – she did not know what Michael had blown up to cause this particular distraction, but she really hoped he had not selected something that was too valuable or expensive. If he had any sense – something she was not entirely sure of, now that Dana had passed on – he would have targeted one of the buildings undergoing renovation or perhaps even some poor, unfortunate individual's personal vehicle.

The creak of the truck bed shifting snapped her attention toward it and Ziva heaved a soft sigh of relief when Tony appeared. He was still in the process of returning the ruggedized laptop into the backpack, and Ziva noted with some approval that he had already sealed the computer in a waterproof bag first. If it came down to it, they could use the bay as an escape option, although she was not particularly enamored of the idea. Swimming the distance that would be necessary to get clear of any pursuers at night in their combat gear … well, James Bond might be capable of it, but she doubted that Tony, with his plague-damaged lungs, could.

Not that she would ever _tell _him that, of course. He might take it as a challenge.

As he dropped down to the concrete, Tony gave her a quick nod and quickly strode across the floor to join her. Ziva frowned tightly at his apparent lack of haste, but held her tongue. There would be time later to chastise him, to remind him that now was _not _the time to think he was Kurt Russell in _Tombstone _… and damn him for making her think about things in movie terms. He would clearly have to pay.

Ziva rose fluidly from where she had knelt and pointed sharply in the opposite direction that Michael and … Ari had taken over ten minutes earlier. Nodding, Tony checked the load in his shotgun before audibly drawing in a deep breath she took to be a steadying one. He shot one quick glance in the direction of the truck before falling into step behind her. She paused only long enough to plant a timed micro-charge atop the signal jammer; in five minutes, it would detonate and destroy the small device, thus allowing the truck to pop back up on the GPS scan.

Once clear of the warehouse, they headed east, cutting through the side streets between the various storage facilities and clinging to the shadows to avoid the clear sounds of activity. Twice, they were forced to hide when armored Humvees equipped with spotlights slowly crept by. A trio of helicopters was already in the air, the distinctive sounds of their rotors identifying them as SH-60 Sea Hawks.

"Dammit," Tony murmured as they crouched beside a building Ziva did not know. Before them yawned a relatively empty parking lot where it would be impossible to remain undetected. He gave her a quick look before nodding and, without a word, they began stripping off the tactical gear. After a quick search, Ziva found a wide enough hole in the concrete under the building to hide most of their equipment; the shotguns she disassembled almost automatically and they too joined the vests, pants and masks under the building. Satisfied that the equipment would not be easily detected, she then gave Tony a quick glance, unable to keep from smiling at his Marine buzz cut or the smoothness of his chin and cheeks. It had been her idea to wear uniforms underneath the tac-gear, although DiNozzo had not been amused that she wore officer rank, while he received staff sergeant rank.

They kept low as they sprinted across the parking lot, hugging several parked cars in an attempt to avoid notice. The sounds of Humvees drew closer and, thinking quickly, Ziva grabbed Tony's hand and dragged him toward a dark BMW. She pulled at his shirt until he got the idea and unbuttoned it. Nodding in approval, she extracted a set of lockpicks from his backpack and spent several long seconds at the driver's side door.

"They're heading this way," Tony hissed. As if in response, the lock on the door popped open and Ziva shot him a smirk before shaking her head to loosen her hair. When she gave him a look, DiNozzo nodded his readiness. She opened the door.

And the car alarm began howling.

By the time the Marines in the Humvee reached the BMW, Tony had slid the pack containing the laptop underneath the front seat, and both of them had scrambled into the back seat. Ziva was not quite sure how DiNozzo managed to get her bra off without removing her shirt while she was disabling the alarm, but it was resting on the stick shift of the car when two armed Marines reached the vehicle. The expression on the faces of the two men said it all.

"What's going on, Sergeant?" Ziva asked, as she donned a startled look on her face and intentionally spoke with a higher pitch to her voice. When she caught sight of the bra, she could not stop the flush that suddenly brightened her cheeks. Tony's sheepish yet triumphant expression only helped sell their story if the quick glance the two Marines exchanged was any indication.

"I need to see your identification, Captain," the lead Marine ordered in a no-nonsense voice. He gave Tony a flat look. "You too, _Sergeant._"

"This … this isn't what it looks like," Ziva stammered, adopting a distinctly Hispanic accent to flavor her words. The younger Marine – a private first class – knelt alongside the car and picked up one of her shoes. He offered it to her with a bland expression.

"Have you seen anything or anyone suspicious in the last ten to fifteen minutes?" the sergeant asked as he accepted their respective IDs. Ziva was not concerned that they would fail inspection since they were the best forgeries Mossad could manage. "In between this … not being what it looks like, that is," he added wryly.

"I heard a loud bang a while ago," Tony offered. He glanced quickly at Ziva before returning his attention to the ground in front of him, the picture of an enlisted man getting caught _in flagrante delicto _with an officer. "Heard some choppers too, but I … uh …"

"And you, ma'am?" The sergeant's eyes were sharp, but he was already looking past them, his mind clearly labeling them as non-hostiles and likely uninvolved with the entire situation. Ziva could not help but wonder how many times he had encountered a situation like this in the past.

"No, I …" She trailed off and began breathing rapidly. "Oh, _Madre de Dios_ … this is going to ruin me … oh, God…" Feigning fury, she turned on Tony. "No one would find out, you said!" she hissed angrily. "My career is ruined because of you!" She took a step closer toward him, balling her hands up in fists, and caught sight of the Marine sergeant shoot a quick look heavenward that seemed to almost scream 'not again.' Before he could speak, the radio attached to his belt crackled.

"A word of advice," the sergeant said sharply as he jerked his head toward the Humvee. The PFC returned to the vehicle immediately. "Find someplace else for your trysts." Without further comment, he turned away, keying his radio. "This is Hayes. False alarm. Continuing my sweep."

"Well, _that _was fun," Tony mumbled as soon as the Humvee pulled away. "What now?" he asked.

"Now we get off this base," Ziva said calmly. She picked up the bra and gave Tony a flat look before throwing it into the backseat. "We can use this car to get us to the nearest stretch of fence that is not being observed." Tony nodded.

"And then we go over it," he finished. "What about Michael? And Livni?"

"They can take care of themselves," Ziva said as she slid into the driver's seat so she could hotwire the car. "At the moment," she added when Tony climbed in beside her, "I am more concerned about _our_ situation. It will not take them long to locate the truck."

"Good," Tony said. At her look, he shrugged. "I don't like the idea of those Marines or … the item being exposed like that." Ziva smiled.

"That is because you are a good person," she remarked a half second before the BMW's engine started. DiNozzo grunted and looked away, his face creased in a dark frown. "They will be all right, Tony," Ziva told him, though she did not know whether she was talking about the Marines, Gibbs and McGee, or Michael.

"They better be," he replied softly. Unconsciously, he reached down to clutch the backpack containing the laptop. Ziva bit her lower lip.

She hoped this had been worth it.

* * *

**A/N #2: **Glad to see I'm receiving notices from the site again ... although I could have done without the data-dump that gave me Alerts, Reviews and Updates I'd missed since last Tuesday all at once.

And **thoronsil **was right - I _so _should have had Tony reference _The Italian Job_ instead. Mea culpa.


	61. The Widening Gyre, 11: Tim

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: **Due to the nature of the plot, the rating of "Transitional States" will likely, by necessity, be upgraded to **M **in the future. Some of the plot elements on the horizon are _not _suitable for children. And, if you're wondering, I _do not _write sex scenes so take that as you will. Just FYI.

I'm taking some liberties here with both the vehicles used and Norfolk Naval Station since everything I know about either is from internet research. Any errors are unintentional and I would greatly appreciate them being pointed out in the interests of accuracy. I am also exercising NCIS & Hollywood logic when it comes to some of the computer elements contained below; yeah, I know it really wouldn't work like this, but they routinely do things on the show that _real _computers can't do, so roll with it. Hollywood Rules, if you will.

* * *

**Tim**

All things considered, Tim would much rather be at home.

Seated in the back of the Ford Econoline acquired for this operation, McGee shifted awkwardly and tried to find a more comfortable position in his tiny chair without drawing too much attention to himself. He wasn't surprised in the slightest when Gibbs, who was sitting behind the steering wheel, looked up from the newspaper he was reading and glanced into the rearview mirror. McGee shot Gibbs a sheepish smile and the older man returned his attention to the paper.

Bare inches away from where Tim sat, Moshe Harari hardly moved, his attention riveted on an ongoing eBay auction of what looked to be _Knights of the Old Republic _for a Mac. Tim couldn't help but to smirk at the notion of a Mossad agent, even one who was mostly a techie, trying to track down a video game. For the life of him, he couldn't even begin to imagine Ziva doing something similar…

They had been sitting in the parking lot of this IHOP for almost an hour now, waiting patiently for contact from Tony or Ziva, and Tim was starting to go just a little stir crazy from all the inactivity. Stakeouts were one thing – he'd never had much trouble with them in the past, even when he'd been paired with Tony – but this? This was entirely different. If this op blew up in their face, they could all go to prison or maybe even Gitmo. And so, to distract himself from thinking about how very badly this could end, McGee focused on his writing while he waited.

In the last week, he had been making excellent progress on _Rock Hollow_, the planned sequel for _Deep Six, _and this entire covert mission was throwing a serious wrench into his writing groove. The decision to completely discard everything he'd written thus far and start over completely had infuriated his agent, but McGee had ignored her complaints and channeled every ounce of his anger and grief over Jeanne's untimely death into his fictional universe. Instead of being an international arms dealer, her father became the owner of a massive defense subcontractor with suspicious ties to terrorist groups and it was Agent McGregor's assignment to get close to the man in any way possible. Tim had already plotted it out in his head: he would intentionally portray 'Gina' as entirely too good to be true, would use every trick in his writing arsenal to convince the readers (and McGregor himself) that a dark revelation was coming about her true allegiances, and then, when McGregor did what he was trained to do and shot her during the climatic confrontation with her father, Tim would reveal that she was _exactly_ as she appeared to be, an innocent in a world of wolves. He was even toying with ending the book on a cliffhanger, perhaps with McGregor appearing to commit suicide.

Not that _he _was having those sorts of thoughts, of course.

Unfortunately, the McGregor plot was only half of what he needed, and Tim was struggling to figure out a way to split apart the rest of the … 'fictional' team so he could send Special Agent Tommy off to Europe for a wild adventure loosely based on Tony's joint investigation with Rivkin. The problem he was having in that area revolved entirely around DiNardo and Tibbs; in _Deep Six_, he had established that the two men were inseparable and saw one another as surrogate family. Tibbs saw the younger man as a stand-in for the son he had lost – and imagine Tim's surprise when he learned that his boss had actually buried a real daughter! He'd invented the dead son simply as a dramatic device to add angst to Tibbs' character and explain the connection between Tibbs and the socially repugnant Tommy – while DiNardo looked up to his boss as a father since he never really had one worthy of the name. Driving a wedge between these two seemed impossible…

But then, McGee had once thought the same thing of Gibbs and Tony too.

It had been his sister, Sarah, who had unwittingly given him the idea Tim was now nursing into a full blown plot when she was complaining about some piece of literature she had to write a paper on. Since Lisa and Tommy were an established couple at the end of _Deep Six_, he would have Tibbs order Officer Dahan to seduce a suspect in order to get vital information for a major case during the prologue. Being a Mossad officer, she probably wouldn't think anything of it, especially since it would ultimately save hundreds or thousands of lives, but Tommy? He'd go ballistic. And with Lisa obeying Tibbs without question, this little incident could also lead to major trust issues between the couple, which would then lead to Special Agent Tommy accepting the undercover mission in order to get away from the two people that had – in his mind – betrayed him.

Yeah, Tim mused, that would work nicely.

Moshe's cell phone suddenly vibrated, instantly causing all three of the men in the van to freeze and turn their eyes to where the device jumped and rattled on the cramped desk. For a long moment, Moshe simply stared at it, his eyes wide.

"Answer the damned thing," Gibbs growled, and Harari jumped. In his eagerness to obey, he knocked it off the tiny desk but Tim reacted without thought, his free hand darting out to catch the phone before it could hit the floor of van. Moshe gave him a thankful smile as he flipped it open and listened to the voice on the other end. He exhaled softly several seconds later and closed the phone.

"Officers Rivkin and Livni will meet us on the other side of Norfolk," he revealed with something like relief in his voice.

"The other side," Gibbs rumbled, "is across the bay." Moshe glanced up.

"Yes, sir," he said. McGee's eyes widened as he considered the distance; it was more than four miles! He swallowed and made a mental note to spend a little more time at the gym, especially when Gibbs merely grunted, as if in approval.

"Anything about DiNozzo? Or David?" the former Marine asked.

"No, sir," Moshe replied and the honorific caused Gibbs to flinch.

"Then we wait." Despite his statement, the silver-haired man started the engine of the van and secured his seatbelt. He glanced up and met Tim's questioning look in the rearview mirror. "We've been here too long," he said as he shifted the vehicle into reverse and backed out of the parking lot.

For the next half hour, Gibbs drove them through the streets of Norfolk with no sign of his usual utter lack of skill behind the wheel. Despite the lateness of the hour, they attracted no undue attention thanks entirely to the greenish-blue logo emblazoned upon the side of the bright yellow van. ServiceMaster crews were out at all hours, after all, as they cleaned business offices late at night when no one was present. One of the first things that McGee had learned while researching his books was that nobody paid attention to custodians, making them ideal covers for spies.

Although the revelation that Mossad owned a 'ServiceMaster' surveillance van here in D.C. was … troubling, to say the least.

When Tim's phone buzzed, he drew in a deep breath and hit the 'send' button to receive the call.

"Operator," he said into it.

"Mister Wizard, get us the hell out of here!" Tony's voice sounded a moment later, causing McGee to smile. He should have known that if anyone would get the _Matrix _reference, it would be Anthony DiNozzo.

"Hold on," McGee ordered. He keyed in a quick command on his computer and promptly traced the GPS signal of Tony's phone. "Got you," he said. Before he could tell DiNozzo that they were on the way, the signal disconnected, giving Tim a brief second of overwhelming terror. He pushed it back, though, realizing that Tony would have ended the call and probably tossed the phone into the nearest garbage can. "We need to turn around, Boss," Tim called out. Gibbs nodded and flipped on the blinker.

It took almost twenty minutes to reach Tony and Ziva, an eternity that McGee spent discreetly hacking into a number of different sites to cover their tracks. As far as he could tell, no one had yet been compromised and the responding units were more confused than ever before. There were at least three different agencies already trying to identify the source of the earlier hacking he and Moshe had done, but Tim was pretty sure they were flailing wildly in the dark.

The door the van slid open abruptly and with no warning, causing both Moshe and Tim to jump, and an exhausted looking Tony and Ziva climbed in without a word. DiNozzo's Marine regulation haircut seemed desperately out of place on him, but McGee said nothing as Tony closed the door and collapsed against it. He was clutching a backpack in one hand as he tilted his head up and stared at the ceiling. Without saying a word, Ziva took a seat next to him.

"Mission accomplished," DiNozzo rasped as Gibbs pulled back into traffic. "Any word from Mike?" he asked.

"They will meet us on the other side of the bay," Moshe said. Tony grunted, the sound almost identical to the one Gibbs had made earlier.

"I think we're in the clear," Tim interjected. He glanced in Gibbs' direction, once more trying to figure out the older agent. From the moment that McGee had volunteered to help with this op, he'd noticed how Gibbs continued to allow Tony take the lead. He would offer the occasional suggestion, answered questions directed at him and let DiNozzo bounce ideas off of him, but at no time did he try to take over or bully his way into being in charge, something McGee had seen him do countless times during criminal investigations.

"Good," Tony muttered as he closed his eyes. "Wake me up in a week." At his side, Ziva already seemed to be asleep, her head resting on DiNozzo's shoulder. His eyes wide, Moshe stared at the two as if he was torn between disbelief and poorly hidden fear, and Tim found himself grinning. Ziva terrified Officer Harari; according to Ari Livni, she'd broken Moshe's leg when the man made a pass at her last year and Moshe always seemed worried that she was going to do it again. Although he knew he shouldn't, McGee found the entire situation hysterical, especially since Tony had been making passes at Ziva since they first met and she'd never broken _his _leg.

By the time they reunited with Officers Rivkin and Livni and parked the van in a secure Mossad location (that would probably be liquidated by the following morning, Tim theorized), it was almost four in the morning. All four of the field agents – Tony, Ziva, Rivkin and Livni – were dead on their feet, so driving the nondescript SUV waiting for them fell to Gibbs. McGee claimed the passenger seat and sat there quietly as his boss merged onto I-64. Tim glanced once or twice back to observe the others, noting that only Rivkin was still awake and he stared out the window without seeming to actually see anything, an expression that Tim couldn't possibly comprehend on his face. Ziva was on her back and snoring lightly, her head in a sleeping Tony's lap and her legs stretched out over Rivkin's. It was such an unbelievably … cute image that McGee used his personal phone and snapped a photo for later blackmail use. Too late, he remembered that Gibbs was driving and shot a worried glance in the man's direction.

But all Gibbs did was smirk.

"Get some sleep, Tim," the silver-haired man ordered. "We still have to go to work in a couple of hours."

McGee groaned before leaning his head back and closing his eyes. The steady hum of the tires on the interstate lulled him to sleep in moments.

The dream began like it always did, with him and Jeanne leaving the hospital the morning after the incident with the two crazed druggies. Tim knew what was coming, tried desperately to wake up or talk her out of rushing to his Porsche to grab her purse while he waited alongside her father, but it played out like it had a million times since the actual event. The titanic roar, the wash of heat, the concussive blast as the car vanished in a fireball, all of it was the same. And then the scream of rage from René Benoit as he fell to his knees alongside his limo echoed through the impossibly azure sky, far louder than it had actually been. The insane fury in the man's eyes as he turned upon Tim, one hand clawing inside his jacket for a weapon, was hotter than even the burning wreck of a car, and McGee blinked. Suddenly, his own weapon was out and he was shouting at Benoit, pleading with him through his own shock and grief, though there was no sound to his words. The gun boomed.

And Tim snapped awake, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

"We're here," Gibbs announced. He was standing next to McGee, the door to the SUV open and a worried look on his already lined face. It took Tim a long moment to realize that they were parked outside his boss' house. Behind them, the Israelis and DiNozzo slumbered on. McGee met Gibbs' eyes, could see the pity and understanding in them, and quickly looked away. "Get everyone up," Gibbs said softly, "and I'll get some coffee started." Tim nodded gratefully.

"On it, Boss," he said.

* * *

**A/N #2: **And no, I _don't _know how Tony got the bra off. He won't tell me, says it's a secret. The DiNozzo Maneuver. Bastard.


	62. The Widening Gyre, 12: Leon

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: **Due to the nature of the plot, the rating of "Transitional States" will likely, by necessity, be upgraded to **M **in the future. Some of the plot elements on the horizon are _not _suitable for children. I have not yet made the change and will let you know when I do.

* * *

**Leon**

He was already awake when the phone rang.

The explosion at the Norfolk Naval Station was already dominating the various news channels when Leon received the call from Director Shepard, and Vance had listened intently to the reports, all the while wondering if this was a precursor to a larger offensive. Fortunately, there had been no injuries when a SUV exploded and, according to the talking heads being interviewed, experts (who remained conveniently anonymous) were classifying this as a car bomb that prematurely detonated. Of course, given the media's propensity for getting things wrong or outright exaggerating things in the name of ratings, Leon suspected they were once again leaping to conclusions without having all of the facts on hand.

By the time he reached the Navy Yard and saw an activity level more appropriate for noon than six thirty in the morning, though, he was convinced that something big had happened. Vance frowned at the security measures currently in place; if Norfolk was the first hint of new attacks, the Marines at the gates were woefully unprepared for unconventional assault tactics, and he made a mental note to review the procedures the moment his schedule allowed it. If nothing else, his background in shadow ops might let him improve the security against unorthodox operations.

Gibbs and his team were already in the bullpen – sans Officer David, of course – and all three of them were on their respective phones. Despite being one of the best investigative teams on the NCIS payroll – admittedly with a slower solve rate now that the deceptively effective DiNozzo was no longer a member – the D.C. major crimes response team had no jurisdiction in Norfolk. Supervisory Special Agent Patterson, recently transferred from the Naples MCRT to avoid the ire of the Italian government still annoyed at him for various reasons, was in charge and, with how Gibbs had gone over the man's head to take over the Rota investigation last year, Leon doubted the Norfolk MCRT leader would be very willing to step aside right now.

As Vance began mounting the stairs leading to the director's office, he gave Gibbs' team another glance and hesitated at the clear exhaustion stamped on the faces of both Jethro and Special Agent McGee. Leon frowned – as far as he knew, they hadn't had a case last night – before shaking his head and continuing up to the next level. McGee was still recovering from the ill-advised undercover mission Director Shepard had put him on last year, and Gibbs … well, according to the rumors, the man had a tendency to stay up far too late and work on a boat in his basement.

Leon made a quick detour to his tiny office, nodding in approval at the presence of his new secretary. A frighteningly thin Latina woman, Maria had shown in just a few days that she was far more competent than the previous girl who had ostensibly manned the phones before Vance had her transferred. She looked up as he entered.

"The director wants you in her office ASAP, sir," she said as she offered him four telephone message forms. Leon nodded as he accepted them and flipped through them.

"About Norfolk?"

"I think so, sir." The phone rang before she could continue. "Deputy Director Vance's office." Maria blinked and glanced up at him. "Yes, ma'am, he just arrived," she said before hanging the phone up. "That was the director, sir. She sounded … insistent."

"I better see what she wants," Leon remarked wryly. He offered her one of the message sheets. "Call Special Agent Kort back and arrange a time for us to meet. If possible, I'd like to talk to him today." Maria nodded.

"Yes, sir."

The moment he stepped into Shepard's office, Leon knew the situation was worse than he expected. His face red with fury, the Secretary of the Navy, Phillip Davenport, was pacing back and forth in the director's office, gesticulating wildly as he vented. Loudly.

"How the _hell _did they know?" the SecNav nearly screamed as Vance pushed the door shut behind him. Jenny gave him a discreet nod, but said nothing as she kept her attention on the pacing secretary of the Navy. "They knew _exactly _which truck to hit!"

"Special Agent Patterson is investigating now, Mister Secretary," Director Shepard said calmly. "The moment we know something, I will pass it on to you."

"That's not good enough!" Davenport hissed, rounding on her as he spoke. "You have to have _something!_"

"No one was killed, Secretary," Shepard said flatly. Her eyes were narrowed and the muscles in her jaw quivered with visible annoyance. "The perpetrators were _very _careful to not even _injure _any of the Marines. That right there tells us a lot."

Leon frowned – he wasn't entirely sure what they were talking about and firmly believed it was always wiser to keep his mouth shut when he was ignorant of the facts. It was obvious, though, that there was more at stake here than a car bomb on a navy base. He gave it a moment of thought – what was at Norfolk that could cause the SecNav to panic like this? – and his breath caught in sudden comprehension.

Domino.

"There was no indication that anything was taken, Mister Secretary," Shepard continued, either oblivious to Vance's furious glare or completely ignoring it. "It is the detachment commander's opinion that their rapid response caused the would-be thieves to abort."

"He's sure?" Davenport visibly relaxed at her nod before frowning. "But why avoid casualties? If they're after Domino, they shouldn't care about collateral damage." Leon flinched at the reference; in his experience, Marines didn't particularly like to be referred to in such a callous manner.

"Not everyone who would want it hates America, sir," the director stated calmly. "I can think of several federal agencies with the ability to conduct an operation like this and a desire to get their hands on Domino."

"You're talking an inside job." The SecNav was aghast …

And so was Leon. He stared at Shepard in stunned disbelief as she continued to spin her fairy tale, all without actually speaking a single mis-truth. The CIA would certainly like to get a peek at Domino, after all, as would the NSA. For all the talk about inter-service cooperation in the wake of 9/11, Vance had seen more senseless pissing contests over jurisdiction and authority since the establishment of Homeland Security than the rest of his career combined. It was a wonder that they were able to prevent any attacks at all with the added layers of bureaucracy added to their already difficult jobs by members of Congress who were more interested in getting re-elected and covering their asses than actually protecting the nation.

Before Vance could interrupt Shepard's line of BS, the SecNav's cellphone rang. Davenport glanced at the caller ID, grimaced, and flipped it open as he headed for the door.

"Good morning, Mister President," he answered while exiting Shepard's office. Leon waited bare seconds before discreetly pushing the door shut and turning his full attention to the director.

"You lied to him," he accused without preamble. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't march out there and tell him the truth."

"Because he already _knows _the truth," Shepard retorted before rubbing her temples as if to ward off a headache. "The secretary is being … selective in what he knows about at the moment." Leon grunted – unfortunately, that sounded entirely too much like what Davenport would do in this situation; sometimes, Vance thought the man had the acronym CYA tattooed on the back of his eyelids – but he didn't apologize. "Nothing was taken from the site," the director continued a moment later.

"But you want people to _think _something was taken," Vance guessed. Shepard nodded.

"We received some new intel this morning," Jenny said calmly, "indicating that this organization has assets in place that would allow them to know whether an actual attempt was made or not."

"And then what?" Leon asked. He had to admit that the director had obviously given this some thought and, from an objective point of view, staging an aborted heist like this made perfect sense for DiNozzo's cover.

"The team presents a copy of a flawed database." Shepard adjusted her glasses and frowns. "We then use it to locate the targets and move against them." She leveled a cool, unblinking look at him. "You were right last week," she said. "I was out of line with my previous instructions to the agents in the field."

The SecNav swept back into the office before Leon could reply, and from the apoplectic expression on Davenport's face, his conversation with the president had obviously not gone over well. Glaring darkly, he stormed across the office to stand in front of Shepard's desk.

"I have a briefing with the president in one hour," he said sharply, "so you better have _something _by then!"

"We have something now, Mister Secretary," Jenny said. "I just received an email from the agent-in-charge of the investigation and he's made a preliminary identification of two of the culprits." She clicked once on something and then turned the monitor toward Davenport, revealing a fuzzy, out of focus photograph of DiNozzo and David. Both were wearing Marine uniforms. "We believe this is Tomás D'Agostino, an arms dealer we've been trying to apprehend for years, and his wife, an ex-Mossad operative gone rogue named Lisa Stavi." As the SecNav blinked, Shepard continued with absolutely no hint that she was lying through her teeth. "Central Intelligence has been following them for a few months now, but lost track of them outside of Stuttgart last week." She nodded toward Leon. "Deputy Director Vance is flying to Tel Aviv later today to coordinate with Director David regarding Stavi," she said, and Leon bit back a sound of surprise at the news. He could only imagine how Jackie was going to take _this._

"I want everything you have on this D'Agostino on my desk in twenty minutes," Davenport ordered crisply. He was out of the office seconds later and Leon gave Shepard a wry look.

"Tel Aviv?" he asked.

"Eli wants to coordinate some things with you," she replied. "Sorry to spring it on you like this." Vance nodded.

"It's fine," he said. "But you get to tell my wife." Jenny gave him a tight-lipped smile and a nod before returning her attention back to her computer, squinting and once more rubbing her temples. Leon recognized the unvoiced dismissal and walked from her office without further comment, his mind racing. First and foremost, he needed to contact Officer Rivkin through their previously established means of contact and verify that Director Shepard had in fact amended her orders regarding Domino. 'Trust, but verify' a great man had once said, and he intended to do that very thing, especially with how … driven Jenny seemed to be of late. He wasn't sure why, but the intensity in her eyes more often than not disconcerted him and inexplicably reminded him of Jackie's mother in her final days.

And that wasn't even taking into account the other symptoms he had noticed…

As he walked from the director's office, Leon glanced down into the bullpen and was vaguely surprised to see only Special Agent Lee present. She glanced up, as if she sensed his eyes on her, and gave him a subtle nod that he returned. Michelle was his way into Gibbs' inner circle, his eyes and ears within the highly effective but often borderline illegal major crimes team. She had come to him shortly after he moved back to D.C., worried about some of the more questionable actions being taken by Special Agent Gibbs. It hadn't surprised Leon in the slightest that Shepard had covered for her old mentor (and rumored lover) when his admittedly admirable pursuit of justice violated the very laws they were sworn to protect and obey, and Lee's decision to report these practices to someone who wouldn't just ignore them or even inform Gibbs was equally understandable. Michelle was a lawyer by training, not an investigator, and Jethro had a tendency to push the boundaries of legality in such a way it seemed inevitable that it was eventually going to explode in his face.

"All alone?" Vance asked once he took the stairs down to the bullpen. Lee swallowed.

"Yes, sir," she replied. "Agent Gibbs sent McGee home and then went for coffee." Leon nodded.

"If you see Gibbs," he said, "let him know I'd like to talk to him." Without waiting for a reply, he headed for the elevator, frowning slightly at the prominent 'Out of Order' sign in front of it. Repeated complaints (as well as annoyed looks aimed at Gibbs) had led Maintenance to place it off limits until they did some repairs. Leon had even caught wind of rumors that there was a pool being gathered aimed at requesting the removal of the emergency stop button.

He took the stairs down to autopsy slowly, turning over in his mind how to broach this particular subject without revealing his suspicions. Donald Mallard was dangerously intelligent and all it would take was a single misstep or poor choice of words for the doctor to guess who Leon was referencing.

"-in the damned shower!" Gibbs' voice echoed from autopsy, sharp and annoyed. "Together!"

Vance's stride faltered – he had a good idea who Gibbs was complaining about, but wasn't sure if he should try to confirm that suspicion – but he pressed on, pushing opening the stairwell door and entering autopsy a moment later to discover both Doctor Mallard and Gibbs waiting, the latter wearing a distrustful scowl that barely concealed the dark bags under his eyes.

"Ah, Leon!" Ducky greeted with a bright smile. His hands were inside the chest cavity of a corpse despite the early hour. "How wonderful to see you!"

"Doctor," Vance greeted with a thin smile of his own. "Gibbs," he said with a nod. The man in question grunted as he tossed aside his empty coffee cup. "Agent Lee said you sent McGee home," Leon said. "Anything wrong?"

"He was up too late," Gibbs replied flatly.

"Helping you with the boat?" Leon remarked, locking eyes with the man. Gibbs shrugged.

"Something like that," came his unhelpful response. "Is there something I can help you with, Leon?" Gibbs asked.

"Maybe later," Vance replied. "I'm heading to Tel Aviv later today," he said, noting the fractional narrowing of Gibbs' eyes, "but I'd like to talk to you about … things before I leave." Once more, Gibbs grunted and Leon took that to mean agreement. "At the moment, though," he said, "I have some questions for Doctor Mallard."

"Please," the doctor said with a broad smile as he extracted something from the corpse's chest, "call me Ducky."

"I'll catch up with you later, Duck," Gibbs said as he headed toward the exit. Leon watched him depart and waited until the door to the stairwell clanged shut before turning his attention to the medical examiner.

"How can I help you, Leon?" Mallard asked. Vance drew in a steadying breath.

"I'm going to describe to you some symptoms," he began slowly, "and I'd like your medical opinion as to what they might mean."

Ducky nodded, a slightly concerned expression on his face, and Leon began to speak.

* * *

**A/N #2: **Personal biases regarding the news media and the federal government have a tendency to bleed into my writing. No insult is intended toward those of you who work in either - I simply distrust them both with every fiber of my being and history routinely shows my distrust is justified.

And I think some of you are taking the whole bra thing too seriously. It was just intended as a moment of levity during a tense and dangerous situation ... in my continuing efforts to go in ways the canon show seems incapable or unwilling of, I just thought I'd have someone _other _than Tony be the butt of a joke for a change.


	63. The Widening Gyre, 13: Tony

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: **Due to the nature of the plot, the rating of "Transitional States" has been upgraded to **M**. There isn't anything in _this _chapter really requiring it (apart from me indulging in my love of naked Ziva), but scenes coming up mandate the change principally for violence.

* * *

**Tony**

For the first time in a very long time, he was glad to be Tomás D'Agostino.

As he stepped out of bathroom, heralded by a thick cloud of steam, Tony had to pause and take in the sheer opulence of the executive suite he and Ziva had rented for their overnight stay in Quebec. The Fairmont Le Château Frontenac looked less like a resort hotel than a European castle, but he had to admit that it was well worth the hefty price tag attached. He'd recognized the place from Hitchcock's _I Confess_ the moment Ziva had suggested that they rent a room and had to admit, the place looked even better in person. Their suite was straight out of a Bond movie, complete with a luxurious marble bathroom, unbelievable view of the St. Lawrence River, and an attached dining room large enough to host a decent Super Bowl party. His smile abruptly widened. There was even a naked Bond babe under his sheets, no matter that she snored like a freight train and hogged the covers at night.

Sometimes, life was good.

His good humor faded the moment he looked at the locked briefcase propped up in the corner of the room. The realization that a _lot _of sailors and Marines could die if the information locked inside that case fell into the wrong hands made him want to throw up. Or, better yet, rig two Claymores to the damned thing and blow it to smithereens. If the director hadn't given them explicit instructions to continue this charade the day before they skipped out of D.C., Tony would have gladly aborted this entire op and gone back to chasing murderers, druggies, and rapists. Hell, he'd be okay with accepting a demotion back down to probie and an assignment to cold cases if it would get him out of putting more Americans in danger.

And it sure as hell didn't help that the case was the exact same kind Tarantino used in _Pulp Fiction._

With a sudden gasp and what sounded like a bit back scream, Ziva sat upright in bed, her eyes wide and her breath coming in rapid gasps. She had blinked the last remnants of the nightmare away by the time Tony reached her side, but he gave her a worried look nonetheless. He could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen her sleep an entire night without jerking awake, though it was a toss-up whether the reasons were bad dreams or her hair-trigger reactions detecting something he hadn't.

"You okay?" he asked unnecessarily. It wasn't as if he expected her to answer honestly; if he found her in the bathroom with both legs severed, an arm held in place by a single tendon, and a half dozen gunshot wounds in her stomach, she'd respond in pretty much the same way.

"I'm fine," she said and Tony almost smiled at her use of a contraction. He thought about tweaking her about it, but instead returned his attention to the briefcase. "You are up early," Ziva said, sliding out of bed with absolutely no concern for her nudity. Tony nodded.

"Couldn't sleep," DiNozzo said softly. "Crappy dreams." He shuddered as Isaac Chayat's startled face suddenly leaped to mind. Both Ziva and Michael had insisted that Mossad would not try to punish him for the Israeli's death, that Chayat had been intentionally sacrificed for the good of the mission like a goddamned chess piece, but Tony knew he'd never be able to fully forgive himself. He suddenly understood perfectly how McGee had felt when everyone thought he'd killed the dirty Metro cop a couple of years ago.

"This is your op, Tony," Ziva said abruptly. She stopped in front of him, still brazenly nude, but he couldn't tear his eyes from hers for a proper look at her unclothed body. "If you decide we should abort," she said, "I will back you."

"I dunno, Ziva." Tony exhaled deeply and once more, glanced in the direction of the case. "The director wants this op finished," he said, "but that thing … it's dangerous."

"Let me shower," Ziva instructed, "and we can discuss our options." She leaned forward to give him a soft, lingering kiss before circling around him and heading toward the bathroom. "If you order breakfast," she added, "make sure my food is kosher."

"Yes, ma'am," DiNozzo mumbled sarcastically. Running fingers through his still wet hair, he suddenly realized that he'd missed a perfectly good opportunity to leer while she walked across the bedroom. He shot a quick glare at the briefcase – the stupid thing was clearly to blame for knocking him off his game, even if just a few minutes – before going in search of the phone and the breakfast menu.

After eating – Ziva ending up having grapefruit and cereal while Tony stuck with a cheese omelet – they spent the next three hours driving around Quebec City, seeing the sights and doing their best to make sure they weren't followed. With Ziva behind the wheel of their rented sports car, that was surprisingly easy, and DiNozzo wondered what it said about him that her insane driving no longer affected him like it used to. In fact, he was a little surprised to realize that he was actually enjoying how aggressively she drove. It was like a roller coaster, but with the added bonus of horns and curses in French hurled at them. By noon, they had crisscrossed the city at least three times and, if he didn't know better, Tony would almost think they were in France instead of Canada.

When his cellphone buzzed, though, DiNozzo audibly groaned at the reminder that he was _not _just another stupid American tourist with more money than sense on vacation with his ridiculously sexy girlfriend. Ziva grinned at him – he wondered if Mossad taught people to read minds or she just knew him well enough to guess what he was thinking – before gunning the engine and narrowly avoiding a slow(er) moving car. Tony shook his head and answered the phone.

"Yeah?" he said, not bothering to identify himself. That had become a curious habit of his in recent weeks, something he'd not even noticed until Ziva pointed it out.

"I am texting you an address," Michael Rivkin said immediately. "We need to meet." He sounded slightly stressed or perhaps worried, although none of the duress codes were used. "And try to keep your heads low for a change."

"Heads down," Tony corrected under his breath as he ended the call. Within seconds, his phone vibrated, alerting him of an arriving text message. He pushed it toward Ziva. "That was Mikey," he said while she glanced at the screen of the phone. "We need to go here without drawing attention to ourselves."

"First, we need to change cars," Ziva said with a tight frown. She was suddenly all business, once more the cool-eyed professional who had spent her entire life training to be the sharp end of the spear. She braked sharply and angled them toward a large parking lot just outside an office building. The moment they coasted to a stop in a vacant space, she was out of her seat and crouching alongside the car she'd parked next to. Tony took a few extra moments, first to make sure they had anything that could be traced back to them, and then to make sure no one was paying attention to the dark-haired woman who had … already jimmied the door and was breaking open the steering column to hotwire the nondescript Chevrolet. "Hurry up!" Ziva hissed at him, and DiNozzo shook his head as he obeyed.

"For a law enforcement officer," he remarked minutes later as Ziva calmly pulled out of the parking lot, "I seem to be involved in a lot of criminal activity. Wonder why that is."

"It is McGee's fault," Ziva replied smoothly. "He is a bad influence on you." Tony smirked as he glanced in the door mirror.

"We've got a tail," he said. His partner nodded.

"I know," she said. "He has been there since we left the hotel." The Mossad officer frowned. "I had hoped we would lose him when we changed cars," she continued, "but he is quite persistent."

"So much for keeping our heads down," Tony muttered as he double-checked his seat belt.

"Curious," Ziva said suddenly. Her eyes were locked on the rear-view mirror and she was frowning. "He just flashed his lights at us." The car – an unremarkable-looking Ford Taurus – accelerated around them, pausing only long enough for the driver to give them a quick look and nod. Ziva sighed. "He's CIA," she groaned as the car vanished into the mid-afternoon traffic. "No wonder Michael is concerned."

"That guy looks familiar," DiNozzo said. Ziva grunted, her eyes narrowed in a familiar way that Tony recognized as her being extremely worried but not sure what to say. He blew out an annoyed breath and leaned back in his seat. If he needed to know, she would tell him. They'd already discussed this in Frankfurt: there was absolutely no place for secrecy between the two of them during this mission, which had already led to a couple of uncomfortable discussions and would no doubt lead to some more down the road. Sure, Michael could – and _did _– keep things from him when he thought it important, but Ziva wouldn't.

So, Tony didn't bother trying to figure out where he recognized the CIA guy and instead turned his thoughts back to finding a way to keep Domino safe. Holding onto it for dear life like he was doing right now simply wasn't enough.

They arrived at the address Rivkin had sent and Tony bit back a soft curse at the trio of parked cars already there. Two of them he recognized as belonging to Michael and the support team, and the third was the Taurus that had passed them earlier. Rivkin was waiting for them, his arms crossed and a black expression on his face. A half step away from him, the CIA agent leaned against his car, idly smoking a cigarette under the watchful eyes of Ari Livni and Moshe Harari.

"Hello, Agent DiNozzo, Officer David," the stranger said as Tony and Ziva climbed out of their car and approached. Bald, he had a British accent and somehow looked both lethal and rumpled at the same time. "My director ordered me to make contact with you and brief you on what we have on the organization Smidt represents."

"Last I heard," Tony said flatly, "Director Graham disavowed you, Kort." The CIA agent smirked as he dropped the still smoking cigarette butt to the ground and stepped on it.

"You heard wrong, Agent DiNozzo," Kort replied. "Director Shepard can confirm that I've been undercover. My disavowal was part of my cover as a disaffected operative."

"A likely story," Michael growled. He looked like he was on the verge of violence and the look in his eyes as he stared at Kort was one of pure hate.

"You have Domino," Kort said, completely ignoring Rivkin's black expression. "Can I guess your plan is to swap it out with a fake in order to get closer to Smidt's organization?" Both Livni and Moshe exchanged a quick glance, and Tony could tell that Kort noticed. "It won't work," the CIA man declared. "We already used that gambit last year when La Grenouille sold the ARES system. Regine won't fall for the same ploy twice."

"Did you sleep with her too?" Rivkin demanded, and Tony almost groaned. Dana. It always came back to her with Michael.

"Once or twice," Kort replied with a smile that vanished as he turned his full attention to Rivkin. "You have my deepest condolences for Officer Stavi," he said. "She was a good woman and an even better agent." Michael swallowed, his face going blank, and nodded tightly before turning away and walking several steps away.

"Why is the CIA helping us?" Ziva asked as she stepped closer to Tony. Kort gave her a quick once-over, his eyes darting between her and Tony, before smiling tightly.

"We've been trying to infiltrate this organization for six years now," he replied as he tapped another cigarette out of the crumpled pack. "I came the closest with Benoit," he added, "and even then, I couldn't get as far as you have in eight months." With a flick of his thumb, he struck a match and lit his cigarette. "NCIS is a nothing organization," Kort remarked, smirking at Tony's instinctive bristle, "so you have the benefit of anonymity Langley doesn't have." He sucked on the cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke. "Right now, you've got the best chance of pulling this off and some of us in the Company are more interested in shutting down some arms dealers than getting the credit for it."

"You said you had information?" Tony asked. Kort nodded and gestured toward his car.

"The envelope on the passenger seat," he said. "It has copies of everything we have." He finished his cigarette as Moshe reached into the car and extracted the sealed brown envelope. It looked to have several CD cases inside. "Now," Kort said, "if you don't mind, I really need to get back to D.C." He flicked the cigarette across the parking lot and opened the door of his Taurus. "A word of advice, Agent DiNozzo? Don't underestimate Smidt. She's a lot more dangerous than you might think."

"She's a woman," Tony retorted. "They're _all _dangerous." Ziva snorted.

"Moshe," Rivkin snapped the moment Kort pulled out of the parking lot, "I want a thorough examination of that information. Make sure Langley did not hide any tracking software on those discs."

"Yes, sir," Harari answered.

"Do you think he was telling the truth?" Tony asked a moment later. "About the CIA just wanting to shut these people down?"

"You can always tell when Trent Kort is lying," Michael replied darkly. "His lips move."

"Still," DiNozzo said, "he had a point. Swapping Domino out with a fake probably won't work." Both Ziva and Rivkin nodded in agreement.

"Sir?" Moshe said tentatively. Tony glanced at him. "I have an idea."

* * *

**A/N #2:** Alas, so little love for Leon...

Progress note: I just finished writing chapter 31 of Part 2 (which was nowhere near as difficult to write as 27), which means I've only got nine more chapters until Part 2 is complete (40 total instead of the 50 in Part 1.) Go, me.


	64. The Widening Gyre, 14: Ziva

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: **A reminder may be in order regarding exactly _when _this chapter takes place. As an AU season 5, it occurs in summer 2008, which is before the most recent U.S. presidential election. Further, there is an argument below that might be construed as controversial regarding American foreign policy & Israel. It is not my intention to start a political debate, even if recorded history (and current events) shows that said statement is 100% accurate.

Rated **M **for violence.

* * *

**Ziva**

She was thoroughly sick of Germany.

It had nothing to do with the actual country or the relatively friendly people they interacted with on a daily basis, and everything to do with the current mission. All of Ziva's instincts were screaming that something was about to go wrong with this ridiculous operation, and she knew for a fact that Tony felt the same way. Even though she knew it was unfounded, part of her wanted to blame him for infecting her with his fears, despite the fact that she still questioned Jenny's decision to send DiNozzo back into the field so soon after Dana and Paula died. He needed time to recover, to get back in his game – or was that _on _his game? Stupid English idioms – and throwing him back into the fire so quickly was a recipe for disaster.

Not that she would tell him, of course. He had enough to worry about and it was her job to watch out for his exceptionally hairy six.

As she sat quietly on the park bench overlooking the Main River that curled through the actual city of Frankfurt, Ziva exhaled softly and tried to push aside her concerns. Doubt and fear had no place on a mission critical meeting such as this. Tony was relying on her, whether he wanted to admit it or not, and she had absolutely no plans to let him down. As if sensing the direction of her thoughts, DiNozzo fidgeted slightly, and Ziva dropped her left hand onto his thigh to calm him.

The moment he cleared his throat, however, she realized her error: putting her hand near Anthony DiNozzo's groin _never _relaxed him.

Smirking, Ziva made no comment when Tony instead interlaced their fingers, making it look as if they were nothing more than a random couple enjoying the sights on a pleasant summer day. A discreet cough sounded in her earpiece, reminding her – as if she actually _needed _a reminder! – that Officer Livni had a clear view of them and had made no attempts to hide his discomfort over the sometimes public shows of affection she and Tony often made.

For the benefit of their cover, of course.

_"Target approaching from the right," _Livni's voice whispered in her earpiece. He spoke Spanish with the hint of a Colombian accent, which was rather amusing since he'd never even been to South America. _"Only two in support, with another pair remaining in their vehicle."_ Ziva frowned, but scratched her nose with her right thumb. _"Overwatch established," _Livni announced immediately afterward, signaling that he had understood the coded signal and was now watching Regine Smidt through the scope of his high-powered sniper rifle. If the situation deteriorated into chaos which was always a possibility with these sorts of meetings, she would be one of the first to die.

"Good afternoon, Herr D'Agostino," Smidt called out as she approached, her hands clasped tightly upon the straps of the designer carrying case for a laptop hanging off her shoulder. Ziva glanced in the woman's direction, noting immediately the presence of the woman's two bodyguards – one of which they knew to be Smidt's lover – several steps behind her. All three were dressed like business professionals, with expensive suits and stylish sunglasses that cost as much as a plane ticket. To Ziva's poorly hidden delight, Smidt completely ignored her. Nothing said intimidated more than trying to pretend the source of that didn't exist.

"Do you have my money?" Tony asked without bothering to look away from the river. He sounded bored, tired and cranky. "It's Saturday," he continued, "and the missus isn't supposed to be working." Ziva smiled brightly, even as she wondered if the 'devoutly faithful despite the job' part of her cover had been intentionally designed by her father as an attempt to get her interested in Judaism as a faith once more. She wouldn't put it past that wily bastard.

"Do you have Domino?" Smidt asked in response. Tony smirked.

"I'm sure you've heard all about my little escapade in Virginia last week," he said, reaching up to rub his shaved scalp. Combined with the goatee he had grown over the last week, the buzz cut gave him a surprisingly sinister appearance that was only intensified by the coldness of his smile. With his eyes concealed behind dark sunglasses, he looked every inch the calculating killer that Tomás D'Agostino was reputed to be. It was altogether too sexy a look for Ziva's state of mind and she wondered if she could talk him into keeping the look when this op ended, no matter that he constantly complained about his current lack of hair. "So cut the crap and answer the question," Tony snapped, finally deigning to look at the blonde. "Do you have my money?" he repeated harshly.

"I cannot authorize payment without confirmation that you _have _Domino," Smidt said, her own voice tight with … something that sounded a lot like eagerness. Tony grunted.

"Here," he said as he pulled a flash drive out of his jacket pocket and tossed it in Smidt's direction. The blonde woman caught it easily. "Consider that a taste."

Without a word, Smidt extracted a ruggedized laptop from the carrying case and opened it, holding the computer up with her left hand while she waited for the Panasonic Toughbook to boot. Seconds later, she plugged the flash drive into a USB port and Ziva could hear the woman's sharp inhalation of excitement.

"Don't get too attached to it," Tony interjected after a few long seconds of silence. The grin on his face was the familiar one he donned whenever he _knew _that he had the upper hand. Almost as soon as he spoke, Ziva could see the sudden activity taking place on the computer monitor reflected in Smidt's sunglasses and the woman gasped. This had been part of Moshe's idea, one that even Ziva had to admit was inspired and far beyond her or Tony's technical know-how. "I had that flash drive rigged to self-delete," Tony said calmly. "Just in case you tried to cheat me out of my money."

"You are playing a dangerous game, Herr D'Agostino," Smidt nearly snarled as she snapped her laptop closed and dropped the flash drive to the ground in frustrated anger.

"She isn't going to pay us," Ziva said abruptly, her attention locked entirely upon the blonde woman in front of her.

"I think you're right," Tony said. He shook his head, as if in disgust. "Looks like I'll be selling to someone else after all."

"And who are you going to sell it to?" Smidt asked snidely. "The Chinese? The Iranians?" She gave a decidedly unattractive snort of derision.

"I was thinking Israel, actually," Tony retorted, his words causing both Ziva and Smidt to give him surprised looks.

"Mossad will turn you over to the Americans without hesitation," Smidt scoffed.

"Think so?" Tony asked. "There's a better than fifty percent chance Obama wins the presidential election this year," he said, "and historically, Democrat administrations aren't very friendly to Israel." Ziva blinked – this man never ceased to amaze her. "More likely," Tony added, once more sounding bored, "Mossad will gladly fork over the cash for something this valuable so they can prepare for whatever concessions to the Palestinians the new U.S. administration is going to demand."

"Or they will shoot you and give it back to the Americans to ingratiate themselves," Smidt said. "Can you risk that?"

"Can you?" Ziva retorted sharply. She smiled sweetly when the blonde looked at her with a dark expression.

"You have Domino," Smidt declared slowly. "We have … ways of extracting its location from you."

Ziva laughed.

"Oh, look, Tomás," she said brightly, "she's trying to be intimidating!"

"Do not underestimate me," Smidt started to say. Ziva laughed again, though this time, there was no humor in it. The look she gave the blonde woman caused Smidt to take an involuntary step back. Both of the bodyguards tensed, their hands inching toward their jackets and the concealed weapons within.

"Loverboy," Ziva called out, her eyes locked on Smidt.

Almost at once, the head of the bodyguard they had identified as Smidt's lover exploded in a shower of blood, brain matter and bone. The distant _crack _of a rifle report echoed over the ambient sounds of the river a long second later and Smidt froze in place, her eyes so wide she looked like a character in one of the animated Japanese movies Officer Livni liked so much.

"It is not _you_ who has been underestimated," Ziva said softly. She stood, grateful that Tony rose with her and managed to keep his cool. Only now, after the fact, had she realized how he would react to seeing a man die like Caitlin Todd had. This was even worse, though: the rifle Officer Livni had used was a Barrett M82, which fired a 12.7mm round significantly larger than the 7.62mm round Ari had used to kill Todd. American Marines used the M82 to immobilize vehicles, after all, so there was barely enough left of the dead man's head to identify him.

"You have one week to get me my money," Tony said coldly as he adjusted his sunglasses. He took a step toward Smidt and Ziva was pleased to see that both the blonde woman and her remaining bodyguard backpedaled away from him. With a tight smile, Tony knelt and picked up his flash drive, pocketing it and turning away.

"Have a nice day," Ziva called out as she fell into step beside Tony, looping her arm into his. _"Take out their car," _she murmured in Spanish under her breath, _"and then fall back to the rendezvous point._" There was no answer, but a moment later, she could hear the distinct sound of a high velocity bullet smashing through metal. Another distant boom sounded.

"Is it always like this?" Tony asked softly as they walked past several parked cars. The Saint Bartholomeus' Cathedral loomed in the distance before them, piercing the clear blue sky like an ornate bronze spike.

"The casual disregard for human life?" Ziva asked. Her partner nodded. "Not always," she said, "but most of the time, it is necessary, yes." She exhaled and nodded toward a parked BMW. An older model E38, it was parked under a small tree and was just isolated enough from view that no one would notice them stealing it until they were already gone. "He was a criminal," Ziva said when Tony made no comment.

"That doesn't mean he deserved to get his head blown off," DiNozzo replied tightly. "We _murdered _a man," he hissed, somehow managing to convey his utter disgust of what had just happened without actually _looking _disgusted. Ziva sighed.

"We did," she agreed. "And nothing I tell you will change that fact. It does not matter that they would have killed us without hesitation, or that we have orders to do what is necessary, or even that he was wanted for rape in three countries." She met his eyes. "It is the nature of this work that sometimes, we do murder."

"No wonder you fell in love with D.C.," Tony muttered. He glanced around before nodding for her to begin breaking into the BMW. It had become their standard operating procedure: he would act as look out while she picked the locks and disabled the alarms.

"Washington _was _simpler," Ziva admitted, "and it was … pleasant to investigate crimes for a change."

"As opposed to committing them?" Tony's words were not accusatory, but Ziva flushed nonetheless. He was right, after all. In any country, murder was considered a crime and, even if Smidt's lover-slash-bodyguard was a _benzona _who deserved to die, shooting him in the head with a sniper rifle could not be construed as anything _but _murder.

"It would have been easier," she retorted sharply, suddenly embarrassed at the direction her thoughts had taken, "if you had just seduced Smidt and nailed the information out of her."

"Screwed," Tony corrected absently before his brain caught up with what she had just said. He whipped his eyes around and glanced at her. "Not funny, Ziva," he said. "I'd never cheat on you." He smiled, though it seemed half-hearted. "Besides," he added, "I don't have any rabbits for you to boil and you're much scarier than Glenn Close when you get mad."

"I am not joking, Tony," she replied. The door popped open. "There may come a time where it is _necessary _for the mission for you or for I to seduce someone." She hit the door lock release so Tony could get in, before sliding into the car herself. Hotwiring it took mere seconds, but she could almost feel the tension rolling off of DiNozzo as he sat stiffly in the passenger seat.

"Have you?" he asked when she put the BMW in gear and pulled out into the street. "Been involved with your partner and had to seduce a mark during an op?"

"Yes," Ziva replied sadly. "It is … not easy," she admitted. Tony grunted and looked out the window. He was silent for the next hour, as they drove through the city, switching cars every so often in an attempt to shake any potential pursuers.

"I get it now," Tony finally said as she pulled into the hotel parking lot they were staying in. "Gibbs' Rule Twelve," he explained when she gave him a questioning look. "I finally get it."

"Tony…"

"I'm just saying that I would _not _be okay with you sleeping with some guy just to get information."

"I have done it before," Ziva pointed out. Tony shrugged.

"You weren't with me back then, were you?" He glared at the dashboard. "I get why it might be necessary," he said, "but don't ask me to be okay with it."

"How did this become about me?" Ziva asked with a confused look on her face. "We were talking about _you_ seducing Smidt."

"I think shooting her boyfriend kind of killed any chance of that," Tony said with a shrug that did not entirely conceal his discomfort with the notion. For some reason, Ziva was strangely touched that he seemed so … possessive about her, that he was so uncomfortable with even thinking about sex with the admittedly attractive Regine Smidt.

She only hoped it wouldn't interfere with the mission.

"Come on," Tony said as he opened the passenger door of their latest illegally obtained vehicle. "Let's go see what Ari …" He shook his head. "Damn," he muttered. "That just doesn't get easier to say."

Ziva had to nod.

* * *

**A/N #2:** I'd prefer not to discuss season 7 here since my oft-stated blunt opinions tend to be ... controversial - anyone who _really _wants to discuss it with me can send a PM. My only comment is thus: yes, I've seen the episode, and yes, it was surprisingly good in the wake of that craptastic finale, but season 6 started out really good also and still managed to nose dive into mediocrity (IMO, of course. I get that some people actually liked that season, even if I don't understand why.)


	65. The Widening Gyre, 15: Jethro

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: **Rated **M **for language and violence.

This will be the last chapter until probably Saturday or so as I'm moving this week.

* * *

**Jethro**

This damned day couldn't end soon enough.

A blinding headache was building at the base of his skull, though whether that was due to all of the stupid paperwork he'd had to deal with or another hint that the prescription for his reading glasses was long outdated, Gibbs wasn't sure. All that really mattered was that he only had to deal with this stupid desk-sitting job for another thirty minutes before he could go home for some much needed bourbon and boat time. Idly, he wondered if Jenny had appointed him acting-director while she went off to New York (for reasons that weren't entirely clear) as some sort of punishment for his steadfast refusal to stop poking into DiNozzo's undercover mission. She had been decidedly annoyed of late every time he cornered her and demanded to know about Tony's status. As far as she was concerned, it didn't concern him so he should just shut up and do his job.

Obviously, she had forgotten exactly what kind of man he was.

When he heard the soft knock on the door to Director Shepard's office, Gibbs blew out a frustrated breath and looked up, promising himself that if Cynthia was bringing him _more _paperwork, he couldn't be held accountable for his actions. How anyone did this sort of job on a daily basis without going completely insane was beyond him. Writing up incident reports was bad enough, but reviewing procedural documents or equipment requisitions or any of the other sixteen billion kinds of forms the government required was just too much for any normal man.

"Yeah," he growled, frowning darkly when the subject of his musings appeared in the doorway, another large stack of papers in hand. Cynthia's step faltered when he glowered at her, but she didn't back down or flee like Michelle Lee would have done. For a heartbeat, Gibbs wondered if Cynthia was interested in replacing the lawyer currently on his team even if she had no real training in criminal investigation. He discarded the thought almost before it occurred to him, especially when the mental image of what her reports would read like made him shudder.

"These aren't for you, Agent Gibbs," Cynthia said as she placed the files on top of the ones already in the in-box. "Deputy Director Vance will take care of them when he gets in tomorrow."

"Good," Jethro said. He waited until Cynthia retreated before grabbing the files anyway so he could flip through them just to appease his curiosity. Most were routine status reports from the various field offices around the globe or recommendations for commendations, so Gibbs tossed them back on the pile without a second glance. One of them, however, caught his eye and he stared at the unremarkable analysis on illegal European gunrunning and its ties to terrorism for a long moment. There wasn't anything in the file that he didn't already know – he'd spent more years in Europe doing legwork that would have resulted in a briefing like this than he cared to remember – but just knowing that Tony and Ziva were out there without him watching their backs made him tense with worry.

The ringing of the phone caught him by surprise, but he managed to avoid jumping. Instead, he glanced at the clock on the far wall, hoping he could cut out of the office without answering it. Seeing the remorseless second hand still hovering over the nine, Jethro sighed and picked the receiver up.

"Gibbs," he said by way of greeting.

"Interesting way to answer the director's phone," Secretary of the Navy, Phillip Davenport, said, amusement clear in his voice. "I'd heard she put you in charge for the week," he added with a chuckle. "Is NCIS still intact?"

"As far as I can tell," Gibbs replied. "How can I help you, sir?"

"I'm calling for a progress report on the Norfolk … incident," Davenport said. Jethro winced fractionally and wondered how much the SecNav actually knew … or more importantly, how much he _wanted _to know. _Politicians_, Gibbs thought with a mental sneer.

"Afraid I can't help you there," he said calmly. "Patterson is lead since it happened in his back yard." Davenport was silent – a clear indication that he wasn't happy at what he was being told – and Jethro leaned back in the chair for what he knew was coming. He didn't have to wait long.

"Vance will be back tomorrow, right?"

"As far as I know, sir," Gibbs said.

"That isn't good enough," Davenport growled. "Shepard has her cell?"

"Unless she's forgotten everything I taught her," Gibbs replied. The SecNav barked out a laugh.

"Then I'll call her," he said. "It's been good talking to you, Jethro," Davenport said before disconnecting without giving Gibbs a chance to respond.

Apparently, it wasn't _that _good to talk to him.

He was out of the office the moment that the clocked ticked onto five o'clock. Cynthia gave him a darkly amused look as he all but ran for the door – in the most dignified manner possible, of course – but Gibbs paid no attention to her as he paused on the catwalk to look down into the bullpen. To his complete lack of surprise, Lee was already gone, though whether it was for another of her on-again, off-again trysts with Palmer or some other reason entirely, Jethro didn't know. He had given up trying to understand what went through that girl's head, although that didn't stop him from halfway expecting a transfer request any day now. Even worse, he couldn't give her the attitude adjustment she sorely needed: the one time he'd popped her on the back of the head for being an idiot, she'd disappeared shortly afterward and, several hours later, Jethro had found himself hauled into Human Resources for several days of 'sensitivity' training and counseling sessions regarding the 'abuse' of his employees. Gibbs had decided right then he'd rather gnaw off his arm than suffer through another day of that nonsense, so he'd nonverbally acknowledged that Lee had outmaneuvered him.

And then given her the most demeaning jobs he could find for the next week in retaliation. They were currently in détente, with Gibbs not smacking her when she really needed it and her not tying his hands with bureaucratic red tape, but both of them knew it was only a temporary cease fire. Sometimes, Jethro wondered if she was still here because she knew spending a full year on _his _team would look great on a resume.

Tim was still at his desk, though he was gathering his gear and clearly preparing to leave, which Gibbs had to admit relieved him. In the last couple of weeks, McGee had been more distracted than ever before, initially causing Jethro to casually suggest to Abby that she should keep an even closer eye on the young man. When she insisted that Tim was getting better, Gibbs had momentarily suspected that the two had reignited their relationship, although careful observation proved that to not be the case. Instead, McGee was apparently channeling all of his grief into a new book which looked to be heavily influenced by recent events. Gibbs had even snuck a peek at a couple of pages that Tim accidentally left on his desk several nights ago and had to admit that what he saw was pretty good. It didn't matter that he didn't understand McGee's coping mechanism, as long as it worked.

His fingers twitched in response to the thought and he found himself longing for the smell of sawdust. He had his own ways of coping, after all…

With his mind functioning entirely on autopilot, Gibbs was halfway to Holly's old house before he realized his mistake. He bit back a soft curse before shaking his head in morbid amusement. At least he hadn't lost his house when _this_ relationship disintegrated.

A car was parked in front of his house when he finally reached home, and Jethro gave it a quick glance, frowning at how familiar it looked. Unable to place it, he climbed out of his own vehicle and checked his Sig before pushing open the front door.

"You should really think about locking your doors," Leon Vance said from where he sat at the kitchen table. The deputy director was sipping from a large styrofoam cup that had the Starbuck's logo prominently stamped upon it. To say that Vance looked exhausted was an understatement of Biblical proportions.

"Not worth the trouble," Gibbs said, smirking when he realized that the exchange was identical to the one he'd had with Tony when DiNozzo brought his crew into D.C. several weeks ago. "Thought you weren't going to be in until tomorrow, Leon," he added.

"I'm not." Vance fought back a yawn before downing the last of his coffee. He gestured with the cup and glanced around. When Gibbs pointed out the trash can, Vance crumpled the cup and tossed it in. "We didn't get to talk before I left for Israel," the deputy director said as he rubbed his temples, "and I'm not sure when I'll have the opportunity again-"

"If this is about DiNozzo," Gibbs interrupted, "I already know he's undercover." Vance smiled.

"I should have known he'd tell you," Leon said. Jethro snorted as he shook his head.

"He didn't," he replied. "Ziva did. Sort of." At Vance's look, Gibbs shrugged and busied himself with making a pot of coffee. He had a feeling this was going to be a long conversation.

"Can't say I'm all that surprised about that either," Leon remarked with another yawn. He was silent for a long moment and Gibbs could feel his gut twisting and snarling. Nothing Vance was about to say was going to be good news. He just knew it. "Did you help him?" the deputy director asked abruptly, his voice soft but cutting nonetheless. "In Norfolk?"

"Not sure I know what you're talking about, Leon," Gibbs remarked. The coffee maker programmed and whirring, he took the seat across from the deputy director and met the other man's eyes.

"Bullshit," Vance said sharply, the expletive sounding odd coming from such a normally composed man. "You know _exactly _what I'm talking about." He glared at the table before shaking his head. "Of course you helped him," he muttered. "You'd be the first person DiNozzo turned to if he needed help."

"Second, apparently," Gibbs interjected wryly. Vance snorted.

"If it makes you feel any better," he said, "Eli David is just as annoyed at Ziva as you are."

"It doesn't," Jethro replied. Under absolutely no circumstances did he ever want to be compared to the father of Ari Haswari; sometimes, it was hard enough looking at Ziva and knowing she was related to that dirtbag. Gibbs considered his options before deciding to go with his instincts. His gut had never been wrong before. "And yeah," he said, "I did help him." He considered admitting that McGee had aided them as well, but decided against it; if this op blew up in their faces, he'd be damned if he took Tim down too.

"Dammit," Leon muttered. He sighed heavily. "You know what he grabbed?" Gibbs nodded. "And you _still _went along with it?"

"I trust DiNozzo to keep it safe," Gibbs said. "And he said it was sanctioned by the director."

"And yet," Vance remarked tightly, "she told _me_ that nothing was taken." Jethro frowned. "This op is beginning to stink," Leon said. "I'm supposed to be in charge of it, but Director Shepard is issuing instructions to the people in the field that run counter to what she tells me or what I tell them to do." Gibbs remained silent, unsure exactly what to say. The part of him that still loved and was loyal to Jennifer Shepard desperately wanted to grab the cast iron skillet on his stove and smack it upside Leon's hand, but the more cynical part of him that had questioned a lot of Jenny's decisions over the last two years urged him to listen. Vance finally looked up, his eyes narrowed. "Do you trust her, Gibbs?" he asked.

"She's the director," Jethro replied. He _really _didn't want to answer that question, not now after he'd seen what she'd put Tony and McGee through with their respective undercover missions. Leon nodded, as if he had gotten the answer he was looking for.

Which, Gibbs mused, he probably had.

"Do you know why she's in New York?" Vance asked suddenly, the non sequitur causing Jethro to blink in surprise.

"Didn't ask," he replied. "Didn't think it was any of my business." That wasn't entirely true – he'd dropped enough hints to Jenny before she left that implied his interest, but she'd been surprisingly close-mouthed about it. In the end, Gibbs had presumed she was either meeting a new lover that she didn't think he'd approve of or she was there for something his security clearance wasn't high enough to know about.

"You should make it your business," Leon said as he stood. "Before time runs out," Vance added ominously.

And, without another word, the deputy director turned away.

* * *

**A/N #2:** Yeah, I know it seems hard to believe that Lee would sic Human Resources on Gibbs, but as funny as the head slaps could be, I've always had some real problems buying that Gibbs could actually get away with them in a politically correct federal workplace like NCIS, so I decided to use Michelle's law background as a way to resolve why they've sort of disappeared. I've often wondered if the disappearance of them from the canon show could be attributed to Vance's status as Director since I really can't see Leon as allowing those sorts of things to take place.

But then, as an ex-infantryman, I fundamentally disagree with Gibbs' leadership style ... although I can totally buy that he didn't turn into the jackass he's so often portrayed as until after his family died.


	66. The Widening Gyre, 16: Michael

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: **Rated **M **for language and violence.

So little love for Jethro makes me sad.

* * *

**Michael**

The attack came without warning.

He was just emerging from the bathroom, his hair still wet from the shower and a damp towel wrapped around his waist, when the front door exploded inward. A black-clad figure wearing balaclava, protective goggles and bulletproof vest sprang into view, a combat shotgun in hand. At almost the same moment, the large window facing the street shattered as a similarly equipped figure leaped through it, landing with a surprising grace for one so encumbered. It was an impressive assault, designed to startle an average target into inaction.

Michael Rivkin was _not _an average target.

The instant the door blew apart, he reacted, diving away from the entrance and toward the small dining table. He hit the ground and rolled as the second man breached the room through the window, and in that single moment of confusion on the part of the assault team, Michael seized the Benelli M1014 shotgun resting upon the table. The sound of him chambering a shell echoed loudly in the small motel room, drawing the attention and aim of the two men.

But by then, Rivkin was already firing.

His first shot slammed into the vest of the man in front of the window with crushing force. The kinetic impact of the shot sent the man, already off-balance thanks to his awkward entrance, staggering backward where his legs caught the lip of the window. He threw out an arm to steady himself but his fingers only clutched air and he toppled, falling back through the window and into the open lot outside. The man's partner crouched in place, his own shotgun booming. With an explosion of wooden shrapnel, the slug from his weapon smashed through the table and sent the various items atop it flying.

From where he knelt alongside the ruined table, Michael had decent cover from the shooter. His back was to the wall and a small half bar mostly concealed him from the man's view, but Rivkin knew he was already running out of time. Blowing out a sharp breath, he popped up into view, firing the M1014 before he even had a clear target. His first shot slammed into the wall next to the crouching shooter's head, causing the man to instinctively duck away despite his protective gear. Michael's second shot – taken as the breacher jerked away from the shower of plaster and wood that momentarily ruined his vision – struck the man high in the chest and caused him to fall backward onto his butt, thus spoiling the footing of a third man trying to enter. Without hesitation, Rivkin shifted fire and his third shot struck the newcomer in the leg. Screaming in agony, he fell away, blood gushing out of the wound.

"Open fire!" a panicked-sounding voice from outside bellowed and Michael dropped to the floor an instant before a volley of automatic weapons fire began ripping apart the walls. Glass shattered, wood splintered, and metal cracked as the storm of gunfire swept through the motel room. There had to be ten or fifteen guns and Rivkin could see the three members of the initial breaching team backpedaling away to lick their wounds.

Michael cursed.

Staying as low as he could manage, he crawled toward the pile of gear that had fallen from the ruined dining table. Along the way, he realized he had lost his towel earlier, probably when he first dove for the shotgun, but decided he'd rather risk some splinters than try to recover it. When his fingers wrapped around the detonator buried inside the small bag, Rivkin flashed a tight grin and triggered it.

Instantly, the rental car parked outside his motel room exploded as the charge of C-4 he'd planted alongside the gas tank the night before detonated. The gunfire ceased immediately and Michael could hear screams of both panic and pain. He grimaced – for all he knew, these people could be police officers – but he quickly pushed aside his guilt. Tony was trusting him not let Domino fall into anyone's hands and he was _not _going to let DiNozzo down, not when the American had stepped up and given Michael an opportunity to prove to Mossad that, despite Dana's death, he was _still _one of the best.

Grabbing the backpack that contained the precious cargo by its straps, he sprang to his feet and dashed across the small motel room toward the bathroom. Once inside, he pushed the door shut and slid into the sweat pants he'd dropped onto the floor only an hour before when he climbed into the shower. He ignored the sharp pain from the various cuts on his feet as he pulled on his dirty shirt and fumbled through the backpack for another shaped charge that he promptly slapped against the far wall of the bathroom. Barely a minute had passed since the explosion of his car and, as he climbed into the shower in order to avoid shrapnel, he couldn't help but to marvel at just how fast a person could move if properly motivated.

The second explosion, coming so soon on the heels of the first, appeared to cause another round of panic from the sound of it and Michael bared his teeth in a wolfish grin as he stepped through the smoking hole that now connected his room with the one immediately adjacent to it. As he suspected, it was empty, though the bags near the door and the rumpled sheets on the bed indicated it had only recently been occupied. He shook his head before heading to the window and peeking out.

Fire and smoke dominated the view as the shattered wreck of his car continued to burn. A dozen or so black-clad figures hung back by the curve of the road, hiding behind and around a trio of dark cars, their weapons aimed at the motel room Michael had just vacated. None of them seemed particularly eager to charge in, not with three men down – although Rivkin didn't think their injuries were _that _bad; bulletproof vests were worn for a reason – and a very large fire raging in front of them. One of the black-clad men was speaking into the handset for a CB radio and Michael bit his lower lip. He was running out of time. The minute these amateurs worked up the nerve to assault his room, they'd figure out where he went and one measly shotgun wouldn't last very long against their combined firepower.

A thought suddenly occurred to him as he watched the apparent leader issuing instructions: if these men found him, that meant they had probably already found Moshe. He had sent the junior officer to get some food – something that at least _resembled _kosher for a change – and it was highly unlikely that Harari could have evaded a sweeper team like this. As Ziva had pointed out in her after action report of the Spain operation, Moshe was good for technical support but as a field agent, he had no real future.

Stepping away from the window and letting the curtain fall back into place, Michael glanced around the room before his eyes fell upon the packed bags near the door. He crouched and quickly rifled through them, dropping the cell phone and charger he found into his backpack for later use. The loafers he found were slightly too wide for his feet, but he donned them anyway, flinching at the sharp jabs of pain that resulted when he moved his feet. More interestingly, he found what looked like a gift intended for an adolescent boy: a remote controlled car. Despite the situation, he grinned and pulled it out. Yes, he decided, this would do nicely.

Minutes crawled by with agonizing lethargy. The SWAT team – Michael assumed that was what they were – continued to remain crouched behind their cover, watching the motel room with the intensity of sheep who had just learned they lived in a world of wolves. The team leader was issuing loud instructions in French, but his men seemed to be ignoring him in favor of their relative safety. Rivkin grinned as he finished molding the last of the C-4 on top of the toy car. He planted the detonator, crept toward the door and slowly eased it open just wide enough to push the toy out.

A moment later, he was back against the window, the remote control in hand and the detonator hanging off his wrist by a jury-rigged lanyard. Murmuring a soft prayer that this would work, he triggered the RC car and it sprang forward, accelerating toward the cluster of parked cars with a soft, electric whir. In the darkness, with the crackle of a car fire still raging, no one seemed to notice and Michael waited until the toy was in place before he pressed another button on the remote control. Tiny headlights flashed and Rivkin could see the exact moment when one of the SWAT personnel recognized what he was looking at.

"Bomb!" the man shrieked, turning and sprinting away from the car. His compatriots followed suit, abandoning their cover as they fled. Michael waited two additional heartbeats before mashing down on the detonator.

The resulting explosion was … spectacular.

Whether it was the placement of the toy underneath the car or some element regarding the fuel tank, Rivkin didn't know, but the explosion not only ripped the car apart but also threw the pieces a meter or two into the air. The other members of the SWAT team dropped to the ground as they sought cover from the unexpected assault and, in that moment, Michael acted.

As if he didn't have a care in the world, he grabbed his backpack, opened the front door, and casually walked out.

He rounded the corner without anyone calling out or shooting at him. Once there, he paused and glanced back, noting without any real surprise that the assault team was so busy trying to put out the fires raging around them that none of them were even paying attention to the motel room. It shouldn't have surprised him that much; just like the Americans prior to 9/11, the Canadians seemed to believe that they were immune to random acts of madness perpetuated by terrorists so their training didn't adequately cover what to do in case such an act took place.

His intentional selection of this relatively backwater township outside of Quebec City didn't help either. These particular gendarmes had probably never even dealt with an actual hostage situation, let alone a Mossad operative who knew how to use explosives to their greatest potential.

A thick crowd of onlookers were loitering behind the police barricade, but most were so enthralled by the pretty explosions and destroyed property that they didn't even bother glancing in his direction as he slipped into their midst. Of the ones that did look at him, several gave him additional, wide-eyed looks and Michael bit back a groan. At home, his swarthy appearance helped him fit in, but here? Here, he had a tendency to stand out.

No one stopped him as he weaved through the crowd, though, and made his way toward a parking lot filled almost to capacity. He glanced quickly through the line of vehicles before deciding that speed and maneuverability were more important than anonymity.

"That was a nice trick," a familiar voice called out from behind him as he circled a motorcycle, and Michael spun, his hand darting into the backpack for the Jericho 941 concealed alongside the Domino hard drive. Standing in between a pair of large SUVs that carefully hid him from view, Trent Kort smirked. The suit he was wearing looked virtually identical to the one Rivkin had seen him in four days ago and, for all Michael knew, it might actually _be_ the same one.

"Aren't you supposed to be in Washington?" Michael asked, tightening his hold on the Jericho as he kept his eyes locked on Kort.

"Langley, actually." The CIA agent leaned against the truck on his right and yawned. "And then we got credible intel indicating someone was going to move against you." He shrugged. "So I thought I'd lend a hand."

"To which side?" Rivkin demanded. Kort laughed.

"We know Livni is in Europe somewhere with David and DiNozzo," he said, completely ignoring the question, "but what about Harari? Did they get him?" His eyes narrowed and his voice lowered. "Did they get Domino?" he asked and Michael realized that the Brit actually looked worried.

"No," he replied hesitantly. Long experience had taught him that he could not trust Kort, despite the man's occasional usefulness. And Michael certainly wasn't going to forgive this piece of crap for sleeping with Dana, even if it had been her idea. Hell, he was barely able to look at Tony sometimes without wanting to punch the American for daring to touch her, and he knew for a fact that DiNozzo had been the pursued. "I don't know about Moshe," he said, "but they didn't get Domino."

"Good," Kort said and all of Michael's instincts began screaming that he was in danger. He pulled at the Jericho, fully intending on shooting Kort in the chest and getting the hell out of here.

But he wasn't fast enough.

His back was suddenly ablaze with pain and Michael instinctively gasped. His arms and legs went numb, and he collapsed to the ground, suddenly unable to control any part of his body. With a loud _crack, _his head bounced off the concrete and his vision exploded into dancing lights. He tried to speak, tried to curse, but his lips refused to work. Kort loomed over him, his mouth moving though Rivkin couldn't understand what was being said.

A moment later, everything went away.

* * *

**A/N #2:** Naked Michael, just for the ladies.

I'm still in the process of settling into the new place and taking care of the old place, so updates will be erratic.


	67. The Widening Gyre, 17: Tony

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: **Rated **M **for language and violence.

* * *

**Tony**

There was something vaguely erotic about watching Ziva kick a man's ass while she was wearing only her underwear.

She had been in the middle of telling him something – not that Tony had actually been listening; it was hard to focus on her words while she was prancing around their hotel room in very tight, very sheer, very _hot _panties and bra – when she abruptly broke off in mid-sentence. At first, Tony had thought he was in trouble, that she was expecting some sort of reply to whatever it was she had been talking about, but in the next second, she was thundering toward him and taking him down harder than any linebacker had ever hit him during his years with the Buckeyes. He was suddenly reminded of the time they had been locked in the shipping container and how she had tackled him then as well, but before he could ask her if she was getting comfortable, Ziva was rolling off of him and springing to her feet.

Less than a second later, the windows of the hotel room exploded inward and black-clad figures straight out of a generic 90's action flick swung into the room, still secured to their zip lines. Ziva didn't hesitate – ignoring the glass that had to be making a mess of her bare feet, she attacked, lunging past the first man to deliver a short, brutal kick into the knee of the second wannabe ninja. A loud _pop _echoed in the suddenly silent room, followed immediately by a howl of pain as the man crumpled, instinctively letting go of his weapon and clutching his ruined leg. Ziva followed through with a blindingly fast knee strike to the man's face and, as he staggered back, she jumped up and kicked him in the chest, the force of her blow carrying him back out through the window where he plunged to the ground some seven stories below. His partner – the first man through the window – spun in place, desperately trying to get a clear shot at the fast-moving Ziva with the silenced MP-5 he was carrying.

And in doing so, he completely ignored Tony.

With a loud shout, DiNozzo surged forward, grabbing the first weapon within reach – which happened to be the tall, thin lamp next to the door leading to the front dining room – and swinging it as hard as he could. The lamp shattered over the man's head, spraying the air with bits of shattered ceramics and plastic, and the force of the impact traveled up Tony's arm. It caused just enough of a distraction that Ziva was upon the man before he could properly react. She struck rapidly – two solid punches to the face, followed by an elbow strike to the throat that sent the man to the ground, his weapon falling from nerveless fingers.

Tony scrambled for the MP-5 even before the man hit the floor, and the second his fingers wrapped around the pistol grip, he was yanking the submachine gun up and aiming at the doorway leading into the dining room of their suite. A flicker of movement was all the target he needed and he squeezed the trigger. With a soft burp, the silenced SMG erupted, and DiNozzo emptied the magazine without a moment's hesitation. Bullets ripped into the far wall and the couch, filling the air with upholstery and shattered plaster.

While he provided suppressive fire, Ziva wasn't idle. She rolled the unconscious and bleeding man onto his back, ripping free a flash-bang from his tactical vest and hurling it into the dining room. It exploded with a loud _boom _and the Israeli was already darting forward, ignoring Tony's squawk of surprise and worry. He threw aside the empty MP-5 and charged after her, his pulse pounding in his ears like a triphammer.

There were three more black-clad figures inside and all of them were reeling from the effects of the stun grenade Ziva had used against them. For her part, the Israeli hadn't even slowed down, despite the bloody footprints she was leaving in her mad dash forward. Using the ruined couch as a springboard, she leaped into the air and gave one of the attackers a flying jump kick that Tony thought Bruce Lee would have been proud of. The impact picked the man up off his feet and right back out the window he'd entered through. Ziva, on the other hand, landed lightly in front of where he'd been standing and swept out with her foot, hooking a second man's ankle and dropping him bodily to the floor where she rolled and hammered his face with an elbow.

The third man had no time to react either as Tony lowered his shoulder and slammed into his midsection just like he'd been taught back in college. Despite wearing a bulletproof vest, the DiNozzo's target was clearly unprepared for the football tackle and his breath exploded out of him in a loud whoosh. Tony followed through, half-carrying the man into the wall where he lashed out with an elbow strike of his own that smashed into his foe's chin and knocked him even more off-balance. Grabbing the man in a headlock, Tony rammed a fist twice into his foe's face before letting go.

Without a sound, his foe fell to the floor, unconscious.

"Sweeper team," Ziva identified sharply. She was arming herself from the man she'd knocked out – and Tony had to admit that seeing her with a bulletproof vest worn over bra and panties was _frighteningly_ sexy – and, from the way she kept avoiding the window, it was obvious she was worried about sniper cover. "We need to move!" she hissed as she checked the magazine of the MP-5 retrieved from her victim.

"So much for getting my deposit back," Tony groused as he followed her lead. Unlike her, he was still fully dressed and he winced every time he saw her bloody feet – they weren't as bad as Bruce Willis' had been in _Die Hard_, but she sure as hell was going to need some antiseptic, bandages and … oh, God, what about Livni? He glanced up from where he was donning the vest and met Ziva's eyes.

"Presume he is dead or captured," she said, obviously recognizing the train of his thoughts, "and move on." Tony grimaced at the harsh necessity of her approach; despite the man's unfortunate first name, Livni was a decent guy. Ziva had joked that he was one-half Tony – irredeemable prankster, love of sports even if it was that European soccer crap that DiNozzo refused to call football, and a smart mouth – and one-half McGee – pure geek, whether it was his various science-fiction and fantasy books or the Japanese animated flicks that Tony didn't really consider movies – which was why they both liked him.

The boom of a pistol outside the room kept Tony from replying and, a second later, the distinctive sound of silenced MP-5s responded. DiNozzo's breath caught when he realized what it had to be: Livni was outside. He glanced once at Ziva, noting that she was wearing an unconcerned, almost bored expression as she finished lacing up the oversized boots she'd recovered from the unconscious man at her feet. She finally nodded at his look.

"Get ready," she murmured as she pulled one of the grenades free from her salvaged tactical harness. Tony nodded as she pulled the pin and tossed the device onto the floor in front of the window. Instantly, it began spewing out clouds of acrid-smelling smoke that rapidly filled the room. More importantly, it would conceal them from any snipers trying to get a bead on them from the building adjacent to the hotel. "Now!" Ziva hissed, her voice strained as she struggled to keep from coughing.

At the door, Tony paused before yanking it open, Ziva a half step behind him with her MP-5 already primed for action. The smoke billowed out into the hallway, but DiNozzo attention was immediately drawn to the sight of Ari Livni as the young Mossad officer exchanged rapid shots with another team of the black-clad figures. Livni was crouching inside a supply closet, having apparently bashed in the locked door in a desperate attempt to seek cover, and the lip of the wall he was hiding behind was riddled with bullet holes.

Without warning, Ziva ducked out of their room and began firing in the direction of Livni's attackers. Her sudden appearance and the spray of bullets from her MP-5 sent the trio of SWAT wannabes scrambling for cover themselves. Thinking quickly, Tony pulled one of the flash bangs hanging off his stolen tactical vest, primed it, and sent the stun grenade sliding down the hallway toward their attackers with a flick of his wrist. It detonated with a hollow _boom._

"Stairs!" Ziva growled as she backpedaled into the hallway, keeping her weapon aimed in the direction of the black-clad figures. Livni staggered to his feet, slamming a new magazine into his pistol as he rose, and Tony gave the man a quick once-over. Blood was trickling from Livni's nose and the German soccer jersey he wore was caked in plaster and masonry, but otherwise, he looked okay.

"Behind!" Livni exclaimed suddenly. He sprinted in the opposite direction that Ziva was facing, firing his pistol as he moved. Cursing at his stupidity, Tony spun, just in time to see Livni kick something sliding across the hallway floor toward them. The flash-bang, hurled by a flanking team, immediately bounced back toward the man who had first thrown it, exploding harmlessly in between both groups. DiNozzo barked out a laugh – maybe soccer was good for something after all! – before squeezing the trigger of his SMG. It burped a steady stream of bullets, ripping into the walls and showering the would-be SWAT guys with an explosion of white powder. One of the men cried out in German – it sounded like a curse – and fell, clutching his leg, though whether it was from a ricochet or Livni's pistol, DiNozzo didn't know.

Getting to the stairwell was a haze of confusion and gunfire, mixed in with more smoke – Ziva again – and flash-bangs. Their attackers seemed unprepared for the aggressive response and ended up retreating in disorder, leaving behind two of their personnel who were injured. As they swept by those men, Livni kicked one of them in the head and took his MP-5. He flashed a grin at Tony.

"Now _I_ have a machine gun," he quoted. "Ho ho ho." DiNozzo snorted.

"They're going to have the building surrounded," he pointed out moments later as they raced down the stairs. Muttering something under her breath, Ziva stopped and shoved her SMG into his hands. She didn't bother explaining as she stripped off the vest and pushed it toward Livni who instinctively accepted it. The younger man's eyes widened and he stared for – in DiNozzo's opinion – a second too long at Ziva's marvelously toned and oh so luscious form. So Tony took matters in own hands.

And gave Livni a patented Gibbs slap.

"Pay attention!" he growled. Nobody got to ogle Ziva but him, dammit! Livni ducked his head and quickly pulled the vest on.

"I will provide a distraction," Ziva said as she spent a few seconds playing with her hair.

"That you will," Tony agreed, glowering at Livni when the younger man nodded in complete agreement. Ziva rolled her eyes.

"Follow my lead," she said before forcibly hyper-ventilating and donning an expression of feigned terror. She sprinted down the stairs, screaming at the top of her lungs.

"I would follow that … _lead_ anywhere," Livni mumbled. Tony cleared his throat and the younger man shrugged. "What?" he asked. "You were thinking it."

"Not that exactly, no." Tony shook his head in mild amusement. "Good one, though," he said as they started down the stairs after Ziva.

Her distraction worked marvelously. At each point they encountered resistance, the men were so busy watching her that they momentarily forgot to pay attention to the rest of their surroundings, and when they _did _turn around to deal with the sudden appearance of Tony and Livni, Ziva would stop on a dime and attack from behind. By the time they were done, they'd left four different groups of attackers sprawled out, broken and bloodied.

To Tony's surprise, though, they didn't continue down the ground floor and instead exited the stairwell on the second level. Once he gave it some thought, it made sense. If this was a full-blown assault like it appeared to be, there would probably be even more SWAT wannabes in the lobby and Ziva's distraction wouldn't work on all of them.

_"Lisa," _Officer Livni abruptly called out, the use of Ziva's current identity causing both her and Tony to look back at the younger man. He was covering their back, his MP-5 held in one hand while he offered a key card to her. "I borrowed it from maintenance," he said as Ziva took the card. She nodded in approval and picked a door at random to enter.

Once inside, the three of them took long seconds to verify the room was empty. A large suitcase was resting atop the dresser and Ziva made a beeline for it while Livni moved directly to the sole window in the small room. He glanced out, making sure that he didn't silhouette himself for any potential snipers.

"Three large vans," he announced. "Unmarked, but I do not think they have called in the local _polizei._"

"Why do you say that?" Tony demanded as he checked his pockets. He still had his wallet and cell phone. Knowing how easy it was to track someone through GPS, he dropped the phone to the floor and stomped on it.

"It is why I was here in the hotel," Livni said. He shifted his left arm and Tony realized for the first time that the man had been winged at some point. "Per standard procedure," the younger man said, making a point of placing his weapon onto the bed, "I logged into the Mossad secure database for additional instructions." Tony felt his mouth go dry – he wasn't going to like this. At his side, Ziva merely grunted as she pulled on a dress at least three sizes too big for her. "And discovered a sanction order had been issued for a rogue officer named Lisa Stavi," Ari finished carefully. He kept his hands in plain sight.

"Where did it originate?" Ziva asked calmly. She looked ridiculous in the oversized floral-patterned dress and combat boots, but Tony was too stunned to comment.

"The director's office," Livni replied. He suddenly looked younger than before, with confusion visibly stamped on his face. "Why would they do that?" he asked.

"It doesn't make any damned sense!" Tony exploded. "You're his goddamned daughter!"

"It would look unusual if Mossad did not try to kill Lisa Stavi," Ziva said with a shrug. "She is a traitor to Israel, after all, who walked away from her duties because she fell in love with a man she should not have." Tony swallowed, his anger dwindling rapidly as he recognized the tone in her voice: resignation.

"Please tell me we didn't just kill good guys," DiNozzo pleaded.

"For an op like this," Ziva replied quickly, "Mossad would likely outsource to mercenaries." Tony opened his mouth to ask her to explain what she meant by _likely _but decided he didn't want to know. He glanced down, wondering if he would ever be able to sleep normally again.

"I attempted to make contact with Officer Rivkin for instructions," Livni said, his words jolting Tony out of the momentary fugue that had set it, "but was unable to reach him _or _Moshe." Fear washed over DiNozzo then – could Ziva's father have been playing him from the beginning, all in some convoluted plot to get Domino for himself? Tony frowned.

"Michael would not betray you," Ziva said softly, her voice pitched for his ears alone. She used the tips of her fingers to bring his face back around so she could look into his eyes. "Trust me," she said. Tony nodded, even though his concerns didn't go away. "And you?" she asked of Livni.

"As I told Tony," the younger man said, "I will follow your lead anywhere, Officer David." Tony snorted, the reaction causing Ziva to frown slightly in confusion – obviously, she had not heard his exchange with Livni. "I am in this until the end."

"Good," Ziva said. She glanced at Tony. "We will need someone to go after Michael while we continue the charade with Smidt," she suggested. DiNozzo nodded.

"I think we can trust him," he replied as he glanced at Livni. "Think you can handle that, Mossad Probie?" he asked before frowning. "No," he mumbled, "that's Harari's name." He shook his head in annoyance. "Do you have another name? I can't call you Ariel without thinking about the mermaid." Ziva's eyebrows shot up. "Don't start," Tony warned. "The chicks love that movie so I _had _to watch it." She pursed her lips.

"Everyone calls me Ari," Officer Livni said, but Tony shook his head.

"That won't work," he replied sharply. "Middle name?"

"_I _liked _The Little Mermaid,_" Ziva murmured as she returned to rooting through the suitcase.

"Michael," Livni answered with a smirk. Tony sighed.

"We'll work on it, then," Tony decided. He gave Ziva another look. "Any ideas how we get out of here?" he asked.

Ziva smiled.

And held up another dress.

* * *

**A/N #2:** And more Ziva in her underwear, just for me. Mmmm...

To Alex (since I can't just PM a response): I get that you might not care for Rivkin, but the previous chapter was actually necessary for the plot of the story proper. And off the top of my head, I can think of at least two more chapters down the road that revolve solely around him.


	68. The Widening Gyre, 18: Ziva

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: **Rated **M **for language and violence.

* * *

**Ziva**

She wished she had a camera.

If the situation weren't so dire, Ziva would have laughed out loud at the disgruntled look still on Tony's face as he hunched over and pulled the jacket he was wearing more tightly around him in a vain attempt to hide the fact that he was wearing a dress. It no longer mattered that she was the only one who could actually see him; he hadn't spoken to her since they managed to make their escape from the hotel nearly an hour earlier, and the sullen expression he had been wearing since then reminded her of how Tali had looked when she was told 'no.' Having grown up around Middle Eastern men who wore clothes like the thawb that Tony would probably classify as feminine (or at least not very 'manly'), Ziva simply did not see what he was complaining about. If he saw _this _as demeaning, he should try wearing a push-up bra some time.

Fighting the urge to smirk at the mental image that thought caused, Ziva turned the steering wheel of the late model Porsche 993 they had acquired shortly after exiting the hotel and pressed down on the accelerator as they entered the autobahn. Staying in Frankfurt was no longer an option, not with a sanction order on 'Lisa Stavi,' and Ziva was anxious to put as much distance between them and the city as possible. Traveling by plane or rail was out of the question, as both would be closely watched, and while it was _possible _to monitor the numerous roads of Germany, doing so was such a logistical nightmare involving satellites and ground personnel stationed at key points that it might as well be impossible. The resources at Israel's disposal were finite and she could not see them wasting as much time or money as would be necessary.

So using a car was the only option.

At some point, they would need to stop for supplies and she wanted to do something to her hair that would allow her to look a little less like herself, but right now, she was content to simply drive. Officer Livni was on his way to Quebec – Mossad didn't have assassins looking for him, after all, so sending him off alone was not that big a risk – which left her and Tony completely alone for the first time since before he left Washington. There was no Michael trying to avoid looking at them with envy and poorly concealed pain over Dana's death, or Officer Harari refusing to meet her eyes while covertly studying Tony as if trying to figure something out, or even … Ari trying hard to figure out why she had problems saying his name. They were entirely, totally, utterly alone.

It was oddly liberating.

"We can get you some clothes when I stop for petrol," Ziva said after a few more minutes of silence.

"Gas," Tony corrected automatically. "Though I guess they might call it petrol over here." He glared at the dashboard. "I look ridiculous," he finally said.

"You do," Ziva agreed, unable to keep from snickering.

"This sort of thing never would have happened to James Bond," he grumbled. "Well," he added a moment later, "maybe Roger Moore. He _did _dress up like a clown once." Tony was silent for a long moment before blowing out a frustrated breath and giving Ziva a long look. She shifted self-consciously.

"What?" she demanded.

"Did you know he was going to sign a kill order?" Tony asked. He didn't need to identify who he was speaking of and Ziva frowned.

"No," she replied. "It is a good way to cement my cover, though," she admitted a moment later. DiNozzo's face hardened and he looked away.

"Like them sending Chayat after me," he guessed, his tone dark. "Remind me to punch your dad in the face when I see him next."

"I would very much like to see that," Ziva said with a slight smile. She idly wondered if she could arrange for her father's security team to be absent when they next met, just to see if Tony would make good on his promise. It was not that she wanted to see her father in pain … well … maybe a little bit. Her smile widened as she imagined Eli visiting the prime minister with a black eye. Tony did not return it, though, and, when she glanced at him, the look in his eyes was oddly intimidating.

"I want them to pull you out," he said flatly. "There's no way I'm putting you in the crosshairs like this."

"Don't be absurd," Ziva snapped. Her heart skipped a beat at the realization he _could _have her pulled out if he really wanted or tried to. Tony was the only indispensable member of this operation who could not be replaced in some fashion. Everyone else – her, Michael, Livni, Harari – was support for him. "My place is at your side," she said, "watching your six."

"You can't watch it," DiNozzo growled, "if you're dead." Ziva drew in a deep, steadying breath – getting angry at him would not help her case and, if their past was any indication, would only serve to harden his position. Arguing with Tony over matters of actual importance was like navigating a minefield … at night … in the rain … while wearing ear plugs and a blindfold. If she was too calm, he would think she was being condescending (which _always _set him off even worse than before), but if she lost her temper, his own would flare and feed off of her.

"I am trained for this, Tony," she said carefully. "We will simply need to make adjustments to our cover to compensate." At his frown, she rushed on. "Mossad cannot afford to devote a significant amount of resources to this sanction," she pointed out. "As long as we keep a lower than normal profile-"

"That's not good enough," Tony interrupted darkly. "I want you off this op and someplace…" He trailed off.

"Someplace safe?" Ziva finished. She fought down the surge of indignation that came at the sexist remark, even as a rush of affection swelled over his desperate desire to protect her. He was such a silly, stupid man, thinking that she of all people needed to be protected … and yet, she loved him for it. "There is no place safe in this world, Tony," she said. "As a police officer, you should know that better than most." DiNozzo did not respond but Ziva could see him balling up his fists in frustration. It was understandable – he was scared and stressed and had insufficient training in this line of work to be prepared for what her father had apparently done to help sell their cover. "Is this about Dana?" she asked softly. Tony flinched.

Obviously, it was.

"I don't want to be like Michael," he said slowly in response. "Her death … it broke him and I don't want to be like that." He inhaled deeply and shook his head. "Or like Gibbs," he added a moment later. His frown deepened. "And I can't believe your dad would do something like this."

"He does what is necessary," Ziva said. She shrugged, as if it did not mean anything to her even though it hurt that Eli saw her less as his daughter than his private assassin and operative. This was an old pain, one that she had long ago learned to cope with. "He has always done so." Tony gave her an incredulous look.

"You're his daughter!" he exclaimed.

"At the moment," she corrected, "I am an _asset_. He has never allowed our relationship to affect how he uses me in the field." Despite her best efforts, some part of her confusion leaked into her voice and Tony gave her a questioning look. She sighed. "A sanction order for Stavi does not make sense to me," she admitted, knowing that if she did not tell him her thoughts, he would pester her with inanities until she cracked. "She is too unimportant to waste resources on like this." Her partner frowned.

"But in the hotel, you said-"

"I did so for Livni's benefit," Ziva said. As much as she did not want to tell him this, Tony deserved to know. "I am … concerned that this order may have been issued because I abandoned my duties in Washington to aid you." At his wide-eyed look, she tightened her grip on the steering wheel. "Mossad cannot tolerate officers who have conflicts of loyalty," she pointed out, "and you … I have disobeyed previous instructions from Tel Aviv twice to assist you."

"That's it," Tony said harshly. "We make contact with Vance or your dad or somebody."

"Tony…"

"If they don't call the fucking dogs off," he growled, nearly shaking with anger, "then I'm aborting this entire damned operation and walking." Ziva started to comment, but DiNozzo continued in a low, hard voice that both chilled and aroused her at the same time. She wondered how he did it. "Bet the New York Times would like to know about the sort of things they've had me doing recently," Tony said fiercely.

"Do not even joke about that," Ziva snapped. "Nothing will get your name on a kill list faster than a threat to go to the press." When Tony opened his mouth to speak, she reached out and placed two fingers on his lips. "I will make contact with my father," she promised, "and let him know about your … dismay over the sanction order."

"When you call him," Tony said harshly, "I want to talk to him." Ziva blinked and held her tongue; she had no intention of letting DiNozzo get anywhere near the phone when she spoke to her father, not with how angry her lover was. Knowing him, he'd say something that went too far and whatever unlikely esteem Eli currently held him in would vanish like so much smoke in the wind. It was unusual enough for her father to actually approve of the man she was sleeping with – Ziva was _still _not entirely comfortable knowing that Eli liked Tony at all; it was just … weird – but having the two men at odds was something she desperately wanted to avoid.

Of course, she _had _heard rumors that he had dared her father to kill him during the Moscow op last year over the fate of a civilian, but those surely had to be exaggerations. Even Tony wouldn't be that reckless.

They ditched the Porsche in Düsseldorf and replaced it with an ugly Fiat that was nearly as old as Gibbs. For two days, they remained off the grid as they took an extraordinarily circuitous route to Amsterdam, using burn aliases to check into hotels at night and then actually spending the night elsewhere just in case. During that time, she continued her instruction of Tony on some of the more esoteric rules of espionage, not the least of which being the diversion of mission assets into secret personal accounts for use in the case of emergencies. Despite her insistence that it was not only a widely used practice but almost something expected of covert field agents, DiNozzo remained unconvinced that it wasn't little more than embezzling, a crime that, in another life, he would have investigated. For his part, Tony resumed her education on some of the finer parts of classic cinema as well as walking her through his thinking processes when it came to the mission at hand. At first, Ziva was suitably impressed with some of his precautions … up until he revealed that he'd borrowed many of those same ideas from spy movies.

Twice a day, they sought out twenty-four hour internet cafés where they could discreetly check their respective contacts. Against her better judgment, Ziva sent a discreet email to one of her father's numerous blind accounts regarding the sanction notice (and DiNozzo's thoughts about it.) After a moment of consideration, she did the same to Amit Hadar and Michael, just in case her father was unwilling to reply. By the third day, she had still not received a response from any of the three and her unease over the entire situation returned.

Tony's attempts to reach Deputy Director Vance were equally fruitless, as the contact number he'd been given was not functioning for some reason. In his frustration, he came dangerously close to breaking protocol and making a direct call to Gibbs, but ultimately decided against it for the danger it could put his old boss in. Equally worrisome was the continued silence from Regine Smidt on the innocent-looking BBS set up for the purpose of arranging meetings. With the sheer number of bulletin boards popping up on the internet every day, it was impossible to track them all, and even something _as _innocuous as a fan site for a canceled television show or a sports team could be used to conduct illicit transactions without intelligence agencies being aware that anything was going on.

They dodged a second team of assassins on the fourth day while sightseeing in the Rijksmuseum, which prompted them to spend the rest of the day locating someone capable of constructing new identities for them. Ten hours– and a great deal of cash – later, they hopped a short flight to Stockholm.

And, on the fifth day, contact was finally made.

* * *

**A/N #2:** Regarding Rivkin ... he _isn't _a peripheral character in this story. My ... disdain for how the entire Rivkin plot played out in canon is well known, and as a result, I decided to make him a Main Character for this story. Abby and Ducky have less "screen time" than Michael does (although, to be honest, that's mostly 'cause I just can't get a handle on their characters.) Just FYI.


	69. The Widening Gyre, 19: Tim

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: **Rated **M **for language and violence.

* * *

**Tim**

The sound of his phone jolted him out of a deep, dreamless sleep.

At first, Tim didn't know what had caused him to wake and it took him an impossibly long moment to realize that _White and Nerdy _was playing somewhere near the kitchen. Abby had changed the ringtone of his iPhone almost a week ago to the amusing Weird Al song, and McGee hadn't bothered to change it back to something less … well … white and nerdy for the simple reason that he really enjoyed the song. And besides, Gibbs' reaction to the ringtone yesterday when Tim couldn't get to the phone in time had been positively hysterical.

Still, McGee tried not to consider how many of the lyrics actually applied to him.

He rolled out of bed and padded to the door leading out of his bedroom, frowning the moment he realized that Sarah was still out. She'd mentioned a party of some sort at breakfast, but Tim had been so preoccupied over the events of the day before that he'd barely paid attention. The question he'd been posed still haunted him: _did_ he believe in soulmates? Had Jeanne been his? And did that mean he was doomed to turn into another mini-Gibbs?

God, he hoped not. He didn't even _like _boats.

His phone had stopped ringing by the time he reached the desk, and Tim didn't recognize the number on the display. He frowned – it could easily be a wrong number or one of his few non work-related friends drunk-dialing him on a Friday night – but the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up and he suddenly had a very bad feeling about this. Gibbs would call it his gut, Tony would say it was a hunch, and Abby might say it was latent precognition, but McGee knew that something wasn't right. He could feel it in his bones.

The refrain of _White and Nerdy _began once again and he stared at the anonymous number for less than a second before answering. His heart was in his throat – _please, God, don't let it be Sarah in trouble again _– and his voice cracked.

"Hello?"

"Tim?" The voice was accented but familiar. "I need your help," Moshe Harari said, an edge of panic in his voice. "Please!"

"All right," McGee said quickly. He quickly retraced his steps to his bedroom. "Where are you?"

"Outside your apartment," Moshe replied. "Can I come up?" The panic in Harari's voice sounded like it was building and Tim winced at the sorts of things his imagination conjured up that could drive a trained Mossad agent to the edge of hysteria. If Ziva was any indication, it would have to be something momentous, like Cthulu waking up just outside Tel Aviv, or someone finding Noah's Ark somewhere in Nebraska. Although, given what he'd seen about Moshe when he was helping them steal that Domino thing, McGee couldn't entirely rule out the other man finishing _Knights of the Old Republic II _and discovering what a terrible letdown it was compared to the first one.

"Let me buzz you up," Tim answered as he pulled his pants on and automatically reached for his Sig. He clipped it to his belt and walked to the front door, wondering why the bad feeling he'd had when he woke hadn't gone away.

The moment Moshe entered his apartment, Tim knew why.

Suddenly facing the business end of a silenced pistol, McGee froze in place and somehow managed to avoid going for his holstered Sig. As Moshe stepped into the apartment, Tim could see that there was no trace of the fear on his face that his voice had hinted at, and the sharpness in Harari's eyes was a reminder that, regardless of their mutual interests, this man had been trained to kill people without a second thought.

"Do not force me to shoot you," Moshe said harshly. His eyes darted around the apartment. "You are alone?"

"My sister will be home soon," Tim replied cautiously, gambling on a guess that Harari wanted to keep this as low key as possible and civilian casualties certainly didn't fit that mold. His blood ran cold when Moshe smiled.

"No," the Israeli man said darkly, "she won't." Tim's eyes flashed.

"If you hurt her," he hissed, "I'll kill you."

"Of course you will," Moshe retorted. The pistol's aim never wavered as Harari tossed a pair of handcuffs onto the desk and nodded toward them. "Put those on," he ordered. Tim stared at them for a second, his mind racing as he tried to figure a way out of this. "If you do not cooperate," Moshe said calmly, "my associates have orders to kill either your sister or the Goth." McGee flinched and reached for the cuffs. He said nothing as he secured them to his wrists, although the fury in his eyes was hot enough to melt lead. With a nod of satisfaction, Harari pushed the barrel of the pistol against Tim's chest and leaned forward to pull McGee's Sig from its holster. He shoved the weapon into his pants before jerking his head toward the door. "Walk," he said, "and don't try anything stupid."

Due to the lateness of the hour, no one was around to notice as Harari directed Tim toward a waiting car. The driver had a vaguely Middle Eastern look to him, but was otherwise completely unremarkable in appearance, which McGee supposed was probably an advantage in the man's line of work. After a quick conversation between the two men – in Hebrew, Tim noticed, of which he understood one word in six or seven – they pulled out of the apartment parking lot with Harari in the back next to McGee, the barrel of the silenced pistol still pressed firmly against Tim's ribs.

If he wasn't so damned scared, McGee would have thought that this would make a good scene in one of his books.

They didn't bother blindfolding him nor did either of them speak, which gave Tim a long time to consider his options which were surprisingly few. If he was a bad ass like Gibbs or Ziva, or even a bad ass in training like Tony, he might not have been on the verge of losing control of his bladder, but the ominous silence and the knowledge that he couldn't do anything was nearly too much to handle. When they entered Alexandria, Virginia a short time later, McGee had considered and discarded a dozen different ideas about how to get out of this.

"Why are you doing this?" Tim finally demanded. They were driving slowly through a residential area and not some out of the way warehouse like he'd expected. Moshe gave him a sidelong look.

"I require your assistance," the Mossad officer replied. McGee grunted.

"You know," he said darkly, "you could have _asked."_

"Somehow," Harari stated coolly, "I doubt you would be willing to aid me in cracking the encryption on the Domino database." Tim drew in a sharp breath – if they were doing this, then what had happened to Tony or Ziva? "Not voluntarily, anyway," Moshe continued.

"So you took my sister and Abby hostage." McGee glowered at the back of the driver's head. "I'm not an idiot," he said sharply. "You're obviously not planning to let any of us go after this so there is absolutely no way in hell that I'm going to help you."

"On the contrary," Moshe replied, "you _will_ help me because there is a slim chance that you will find something my team and I overlooked that will allow you to save them and escape." He smiled. "I have read your book, Timothy," he said calmly, "and I know that, more than anything else, you want to be the hero." Harari gestured toward the average-looking house the driver was pulling up to. Already, the garage door was opening. "Here is your chance."

McGee was silent for a long moment. As much as he hated to admit it, Moshe – Officer Harari, he corrected himself with scorn – was completely right. Cracking Domino's encryption would take days, maybe even weeks, and he knew Gibbs would be looking for him the moment he didn't show up for work on Monday. Harari's people were the ones on a timetable, not him. If they made good on their threat to kill Abby or Sarah, they'd lose the one hold they had on him.

And besides, he'd seen Harari's coding work and was confident that he could outsmart this smug jackass.

"I want proof of life," Tim said harshly. The driver shifted the car into park and turned off the engine before climbing out. He did not look back or even seem to care that McGee and Harari were still sitting in the back seat. Behind them, the garage door closed with a soft hum.

"Get out," Moshe ordered, jabbing him with the pistol, and Tim grudgingly obeyed. It was difficult opening the door with his hands cuffed together in front of him but not impossible, and by the time he'd climbed out of the car, Harari had slid out the other side and was waiting. "This way," the Israeli said, gesturing toward the open door. McGee walked forward, keeping his eyes on the pistol as he moved. His steps faltered momentarily when he came within striking distance of Harari and the idea of attacking momentarily blotted out reason. As if he knew what Tim was thinking, the Mossad officer tightened his grip on the pistol and narrowed his eyes.

But McGee's sanity reasserted itself and he strode by the Israeli without comment.

The house was a three bedroom one and the walls had been retouched with what looked to be soundproofing. There were four other armed men that McGee could see, and all of them had an eager, hungry look to them, as if they were desperate to prove something. Tim only recognized it because he so often saw the same look when he glanced at himself in the mirror. They were trained killers, yes, but their youth and something about the way they moved seemed to indicate a general lack of experience. McGee filed the realization away for future consideration and turned his eyes on Harari.

"Proof of life," he repeated in as hard a tone as he could muster. Moshe smirked and nodded to one of the men who stood in front of a bedroom door. In response, the second Mossad operative pushed the door open, revealing two unmoving figures sprawled out a large bed. Abby was awake and sitting with her back to the wall, her bound hands cradling a sleeping Sarah. When the door opened, the Goth turned her head slowly, her eyes widening at the sight of McGee standing there. He nodded to her, swallowing the lump that was in his throat, and she forced a smile on her face that didn't come close to hiding her fear. At Harari's nod, the guard pulled the door shut, and Moshe gestured toward a large table set up in the dining room that was covered with computer equipment.

"Shall we get started?" he asked.

"Just so you know," Tim remarked casually, as if he was talking about the weather, "I'm going to kill you when this is done." It was something that an action hero from one of Tony's movies would say, but when his eyes met those of Harari, McGee knew he meant it with every fiber of his being. If it was the last thing he did in this life, he would see this man dead.

"You are welcome to try, Agent McGee," the Mossad officer retorted, though there was the tiniest bit of concern lurking in his expression and Tim took that as a victory.

Now, he just had to figure a way to get Abby and Sarah out of here alive.

* * *

**A/N #2:** FYI, for those of you asking for it, I do **NOT **write sex scenes. Sorry, but I generally prefer those sorts of things to be implied in a story rather than spelled out graphically, mostly because I think in terms of television shows or movies. It would be like watching a Bond movie and then, after he meets up with the latest Babe, them cutting to a graphic, X-Rated scene straight out of a porn flick. Such a scene would just rip me right out of the movie because it isn't really necessary for the furtherance of the story. Even softcore sex scenes in movies annoy me because they so rarely do anything but show the female lead's breasts as the two character gyrate in a slightly unrealistic fashion intended to sort of simulate sex. Too often, they are sex for sex's sake, and that's something I'm just not really keen on dealing with. I get that some people enjoy reading those sorts of chapters - hell, on occasion, I like some of them - but I'd rather just imply sex and let you the readers sort of mentally fill in the blanks.


	70. The Widening Gyre, 20: Jethro

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: **Rated **M **for language and violence.

* * *

**Jethro**

Sundays were always the hardest to get through.

When she was alive, Shannon had been a devout church-goer, though she had always been so fascinated by the various viewpoints and individual traditions that she rarely attended the same church more than twice in a row. In her eyes, it did not matter if the congregation was Catholic or Lutheran, Baptist or Methodist. All that was truly important was the simple truths at the core of the faithful, and more than anything else, she loved meeting new people and hearing their takes on the word of God. Styling herself as something of an amateur theologian, she had even attended services at several mosques and a couple of synagogues, and it was a sign of how popular she was at those various houses of worship that several hundred people turned up for her funeral, many of whom Jethro had never heard of or met but all wanting to pay their respects.

Having never really shared or even understood her deep and abiding interest in religion since his very job went against one of the Commandments, Gibbs had always used Sundays as a day to fish or watch sports or just simply relax. Shannon was not offended by his lack of desire to go to church, although a couple of good-natured and teasing arguments had spawned out of Jethro's 'ungodliness.' It was just one of those minor things that both of them accepted as part of their marriage and, until Shannon and Kelly were killed, Jethro had never realized how accustomed he was to the bustle that meant his wife and daughter were getting ready for an early morning service. The first Sunday he was home after her death, he'd woken early, wondering why it was so quiet and then feeling the grief hammer him all over again. It had taken nearly a year for him to get through a Sunday without breaking down at least once.

These days, he spent those days hard at work on his boat, voluntarily avoiding the bourbon that had become the crutch he still relied on when things were really hard. It was his own form of religious service: exactly two hours would be spent sanding, followed by another two using a saw or hammer or screwdriver, and finally another two sanding once more. There was no deviation to this routine unless he was called into the office to deal with the latest crisis, and even then, he would make it a point to go through those same actions at the earliest chance, as if it were a penance of some sort that absolutely had to happen. A part of him always wondered if Shannon would have laughed at the pseudo-tradition and he desperately wished he had one more chance to find out.

Thus, when his phone rang a little after thirteen hundred hours, Gibbs was well into the final stage of his ritual, with another forty-five minutes remaining of dedicated sanding before he could even consider getting something to eat. Blowing the dust off of the strut he was currently focused on, he reached out with his left hand and grabbed the cell from the tool box he'd constructed almost a decade earlier. The number on the display was unfamiliar, but the name itself – Rosalita Mendez – caused him to frown.

"Gibbs," he answered gruffly. His voice sounded harsh even to his own ears, though he blamed disuse. With Holly gone, he had few people to really talk to outside of work, so he could go an entire weekend without uttering a single word.

"Good afternoon, sir," a friendly, feminine voice greeted him. Her words were lightly accented with a Hispanic flair. "We have never met," the woman said brightly, "but I was given your number as a point of contact for Abigail-"

"What's wrong?" Jethro interrupted, his hand freezing in place. "Is Abby okay?"

"That is what I am calling you about, _Senor,_" the nun said. "She was not at Mass today and Abigail never misses…"

"I'm on it, Sister," Gibbs stated when the woman trailed off. "I'll have her call you as soon as I track her down."

"Thank you, _Senor _Gibbs," the nun said. Jethro could almost hear the smile in her voice and suddenly understood exactly why Abby always gushed over this woman. He shook his head – Shannon would have probably loved the nun.

There was no answer from any of Abby's phones, including the line that no one outside her immediate family – and Jethro, of course, but he didn't count – had, which spurred Gibbs into action. He was out of his house within seconds, pausing only long enough to grab his holstered Sig and strap it to his belt. His gut began twisting and snarling even before he was out the door, and he took the unprecedented action of using the siren installed on his Charger, something he couldn't recall doing since … well, probably before Abby joined NCIS. Maybe even before Franks retired.

As he pulled up to her apartment complex, Gibbs noticed that her car was parked in its usual place and he found himself hoping she wasn't … entertaining a guest this morning. Nothing was more awkward than having to look her in the face after accidentally stumbling in on her while she was engaged in activities he'd really prefer to not think about in the context of a young woman he loved like a daughter. The last time it had happened, she'd pretended he _hadn't _nearly kicked down the door with a pistol drawn because he heard her crying out in what sounded like pain at the time, but Gibbs hadn't been able to meet her eyes for at least a week. As far as he knew, DiNozzo never found out why Gibbs had always sent the younger man to deal with Abby for that five-day period and, if Jethro had anything to do with it, Tony would _never _find out.

When she didn't answer his heavy knocks, Gibbs let himself in with the key Abby had given him years ago. At first, nothing seemed out of place, but the moment he noticed her car keys tossed haphazardly on the coffee table instead of hanging on the wall mount he'd made for her last year, Jethro felt his stomach lurch. Abby was nothing if not a creature of habit, and her forgetting to put her keys in their proper place would be like Gibbs forgetting to get coffee in the morning. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed McGee while he conducted a quick visual search of the rest of the apartment. When Tim didn't answer, Gibbs frowned and tried McGee's home number instead. Jumping to conclusions was never good and it was entirely possible that Abby and Tim were together…

_Don't panic, _Gibbs told himself when he hung up after six rings and jammed his phone back in his pocket. He locked Abby's door behind him – there would be a chance to do a more detailed forensics examination if necessary later – and fast-walked to his Charger. Once more, he used the siren as he backed out of the complex and sped toward McGee's place. It was a new apartment complex, one that Tim had moved into barely a week after his girlfriend died, and was fortunately only a few minutes from Abby's place.

The front door was unlocked.

Drawing his Sig, Gibbs pushed the door open and slowly crept in, suddenly terrified that he was going to find Tim on the floor, a victim of a self-inflicted gunshot wound from the plague of depression that had been riding the younger man's shoulders for almost two months now. That fear was unfounded – Jethro profusely thanked the God he sometimes hated for that – and he checked the two bedrooms for any indications of foul play. McGee's bed was rumpled, as if it had been slept in, and the room that Tim let Sarah sleep in to avoid the campus dorms was so messy that Gibbs wasn't sure how the girl managed to locate clean clothes. Finding nothing else out of the ordinary, Jethro holstered his pistol and reached for his phone. It was time to call this in.

Before his hand even touch his cell, a familiar ring tone echoed through the living room and drew Gibbs' attention to the desk with the typewriter on it. McGee's iPhone was resting alongside the old Remington typewriter, playing that ridiculous song that always caused both Abby and Lee to giggle. Jethro stepped closer to the desk and his breath caught at the text message prominently displayed on the fairly large screen.

MCGEE AND SCUITO NABBED, the message read. A local address was included underneath the single sentence and Gibbs balled his hands tightly into fists. He was just about to pull out his phone and issue an all-points bulletin when a second message appeared on the screen. COME ALONE & QUICKLY, it read. I CAN HELP.

Gibbs made his decision and was out of the apartment before he even realized he was walking.

The address turned out to be a surprisingly secluded park that consisted of a small swing, slide and an old jungle gym that had seen better days. As Gibbs climbed out of his Charger and slowly approached the play area, he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up a second before a familiar figure stepped out of concealment behind a tree.

"Hello, Gibbs," Trent Kort said calmly. Jethro felt his temper spike.

"Where are my people, Kort?" he demanded, dropping his hand to his holstered pistol. The CIA agent held up both hands to show that he was unarmed.

"I didn't take them," the spook said, "but I can tell you where they are." He exhaled sharply before adjusting his coat. "Scuito and Agent McGee's sister are being used to make him do something for some people," Kort announced.

"Where?" Jethro asked, his glare deepening.

"Alexandria," Kort replied. "Gibbs, you can't call this in, not if you want to recover your people alive." At Jethro's look, the CIA operative explained. "These people are plugged in and monitoring all of the official channels. You radio in a request for back-up and all you'll find are three corpses."

"Who are they?" Gibbs took another step closer, his eyes narrowed as he studied the spy for any of the usual indications that he was lying.

"Mossad," came the surprising answer.

And it wasn't a lie.

"DiNozzo?" Jethro asked, pushing down the sudden flare of fear accompanying his question.

"We sighted him in Amsterdam the day before yesterday," Kort said. "He still had David with him and they looked remarkably cozy." The Brit flashed a humorless smile. "Given her recent propensity for working against Mossad's interests," he said wryly, "I don't think Officer David is involved in this."

"I need that address," Gibbs said. He knew that his relief over Tony's survival was written across his face, but he didn't care. Right now, Abby, Sarah and Tim were relying on him.

"What you need," Kort retorted as he pulled a small manila envelope out of his pocket and offered it, "is back-up. You're good, but you aren't good enough to take on an entire rogue cell by yourself." Gibbs noted the most important word in that sentence – _rogue _– and wondered about it.

"You volunteering?" he asked as he took the envelope and tapped out the photos within. He instantly recognized Moshe Harari, the computer guy who had been working alongside Tony and had consistently stared at Ziva with a dangerous combination of anger, terror and lust while they were in D.C. At the time, Gibbs had thought it was none of his business and had noticed that both Ziva and Rivkin seemed aware of the younger man's eccentricities, but now, he wished he'd mentioned it to Tony. Or just shot the sonuvabitch himself.

"Don't be absurd," Kort said in response to Gibbs' question. "You of all people know that the CIA doesn't operate on American soil." Jethro momentarily lifted his eyes from the photos that proved otherwise but decided not to push the matter; he barely trusted Kort far enough to throw him and certainly wasn't going into the field with this man. If Gibbs wasn't looking at the photographic evidence of a handcuffed Tim McGee being pushed out of his apartment complex by an armed Harari, Jethro suspected he'd write this all off as some sort of game of manipulation.

"You know what they've got McGee doing," he guessed. Kort shrugged noncommittally.

"Probably," was his only reply. The CIA operative consulted his watch. "You're running out of time, Gibbs," he said as he turned away. "I'd get busy if I were you." Jethro said nothing as he watched the spy walk to a discreetly parked car and drive away. As much as he wanted to know why Kort had been tailing Harari or staking out McGee's apartment, he didn't have any time to waste with accusations or questions.

Alone at last, Gibbs was able to study the photos more closely and he winced at the number of suspects and the defenses they'd erected. Kort was right. He _was _going to need some good, effective back-up on this. People he could trust. People who could shoot straight and _not_ miss. With Tony and Ziva in Europe and Franks in Mexico, the list of people who fit that description was distressingly short. Gibbs considered his options and then dug out his phone, punching in a speed dial number that connected within seconds.

"I need your help," he said the moment the phone was answered. "Off the record."

"You've got it," Tobias Fornell replied without a moment of hesitation. "What do you need?"

"Bring a clean weapon," Gibbs said before giving him the address of the park. The moment Fornell hung up, Jethro dialed a second number. "This is Gibbs," he said when the phone was answered. "You owe me for Copenhagen and I'm calling in that marker." The line was silent for a moment.

"Tell me where and when," Leon Vance said calmly, "and I'll be there."

* * *

**A/N #2:** There is no canon evidence to support my thing about Shannon in this chapter, so I'm clearly pulling it out of my fourth point of contact. I also don't think they've actually shown Sister Rosalita on the show or identified her last name, so that too is me making something up.

And how many of you were expecting that last sentence? Heh.


	71. The Widening Gyre, 21: Tony

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: **Rated **M **for language and violence.

In honor of my beloved Gators beating LSU just now, I give you a new chapter!

* * *

**Tony**

In his opinion, Stockholm was perhaps one of the most beautiful cities in the world.

He suspected it had everything to do with the unusual geography of the city and how the locals had adapted their architecture to suit it. Situated on fourteen different islands – an archipelago, according to what he'd read on Wikipedia, though he recalled McGee repeatedly warning him over the years that the online database wasn't exactly the most trustworthy – it was such a fascinating mixture of Old Europe and the modern world that Tony felt vaguely embarrassed at how often he found himself gawking like an annoying American tourist. The sheer number of waterways always made him smile and think that Gibbs, with his boat fetish, would _love _this city.

At the moment, DiNozzo was sitting beneath a fake palm tree, sipping a beer, and watching the activity on the docks and in the port itself. A boat club slash restaurant, the Loopen Marin had been Ziva's idea for the location of the coming meeting and Tony had to admit, it was a damned fine choice. The food had been nice enough – they actually made a pretty good burger, something he'd sorely missed since leaving D.C. – but the view was particularly exquisite.

_Especially_ with some of these statuesque Nordic blondes walking around.

Just such a pair of college age women took a seat near him, and Tony glanced in their direction. Both were strikingly attractive, with flawless skin, plump lips, and brilliant blue eyes, but to his surprise, he felt no urge to introduce himself. He couldn't quite put his finger on what it was that made them uninteresting – it was a toss-up between knowing that Ziva was lurking nearby behind a high-powered sniper rifle and how much the taller of the two women looked like that Swedish woman who had turned out to be a member of Ari Haswari's merry little band so many years ago. Tony shivered slightly at the memory – he hadn't thought about Marta in years – and returned his attention to the water.

"See something you like?" Ziva's voice whispered in his ear piece, at once teasing and seductive. "If you ask nicely," she asked from wherever she was concealed, "we can invite them to the hotel room later." In response, Tony pushed his sunglasses back up by using only the middle finger of his left hand. If he thought there was even the slightest chance of her following through with that tease, he might have pursued it – he was a guy, after all, and three gorgeous women at once was any straight man's greatest dream – but Ziva would no doubt find some way to so screw with his head beforehand that he wouldn't be able to think straight, which would probably lead him to making a fool of himself in front of those girls.

Besides, they had a job to do. And honestly? He could barely handle Ziva by herself when she got into a particularly amorous mood. Not that he'd admit that, of course.

Ziva's low, delighted laugh sounded in his ear when he flipped her off, but DiNozzo ignored it and sipped again from his lukewarm beer. He glanced once at his watch – almost four in the afternoon local – and shifted anxiously. This was turning into a really annoying habit of hers and Tomás D'Agostino didn't like it in the least. Maybe it was time to do something … Tony-like, shake things up as it were.

"Target approaching from your left," Ziva suddenly announced. "Get ready."

Less than a minute later, Regine Smidt approached. She was dressed in a stylish pants-suit cut to emphasize her athletic body and had obviously visited a hair stylist since he last saw her. Instead of the computer bag, she was carrying a briefcase that gave her the look of a no-nonsense business woman. With her golden hair and lovely features, she fit right in among the Swedish blondes. When Tony nodded toward the chair in front of him, Smidt paused and gave their surroundings a quick look. Her distraction – and slight worry – was obvious.

And oh so amusing when one considered the likely reason.

"All alone, Herr D'Agostino?" she asked as she took the seat. Tony smirked.

"Oh, Lisa is around here somewhere," he replied. The expression that flashed across Smidt's face was either smug or condescending.

"No doubt hiding from Mossad," the blonde stated as if she was revealing something she should not know.

"Something like that," Tony said. "And if you think that a little thing like her name on a kill list is going to stop me from selling to the Israelis," he added sharply, "then think again. I'll just include a little something extra in my price from them." Smidt smiled again, suddenly reminding DiNozzo of a shark.

"But it will make things more difficult, I think," she said. "The people I represent," she started.

"Lady," Tony interrupted harshly, reaching for his wallet as he spoke, "you're beginning to really piss me off."

"What are you doing?" Ziva hissed through the earpiece, but DiNozzo ignored her. He was tired of this game and frankly, so was Tomás D'Agostino. Smidt's eyes widened as Tony threw several hundred krona – the Swedish currency – onto the table and stood.

"I have been patient with you," Tony said coldly. "I have played your little games, done everything you've asked and even jumped through a half dozen flaming hoops, but I am _done."_ He leaned down, bracing himself on the table with his fists. "I put up with your bullshit because I thought we could actually do business," he growled, "but all you seem to want to do is jerk me around. So go back to your bosses and tell them this: _no deal._" Tony straightened and turned away, lifting the lapel of his jacket closer to his lips. "Lisa," he said softly, knowing that Smidt could hear him, "make the call to your contact in Tel Aviv. We're done here."

Ignoring the squawks of surprise from both Smidt and Ziva, Tony strode away from the table. This was a terrible gamble, one that would probably cause Director Shepard to have a coronary if she found out the risk he was taking, but he honestly didn't see any other way. Smidt was obviously trying to prove herself to her new bosses and what better way than to get Domino for a much lower price than it was actually worth?

One of the woman's bodyguards abruptly stepped in front of him, forcing Tony to stop. DiNozzo smirked and tilted his head down so he could look over the top of his sunglasses at the beefy thug.

"You ever see what a fifty caliber round fired from a Barrett M82 does to a man's head?" he asked conversationally. A second bodyguard stepped into view, but his eyes were wide and it took Tony only a heartbeat to recognize him as the other man in the Frankfurt park. He nodded toward Thug #2. "Your buddy does," he said before leaning forward and lowering his voice. "And if you don't get out my way right now," Tony hissed, "you're going to find out the hard way." Thug #1 swallowed.

And got out of Tony's way.

"Smidt approaching from behind," Ziva whispered. "She looks worried."

"She should be," Tony said out loud. "I'm done playing this stupid game." He glanced over his shoulder and glowered at the wide-eyed blonde as she nearly sprinted to catch up to him. A cell phone was clutched tightly in her left hand and she looked like she was on the verge of vomiting. Tony slowed his pace slightly, but did not stop walking.

"Herr D'Agostino!" Smidt called out urgently. She grabbed Tony's arm in an attempt to stop him, and DiNozzo gave her a dark look.

"I don't recall giving you permission to touch me," he said harshly. Smidt yanked her hand away as if it had been burned.

"I wish to apologize," she rushed to say. "Your price is acceptable to my employers."

"I don't use the Swiss," Tony said calmly after a long moment of silence. That was something that Ziva had insisted upon given the changing political landscape in D.C.; there were rumblings that the secret accounts of the banks in Switzerland long known for their discretion would soon no longer _be_ secret as politicians of all stripes scrambled for more tax revenue. The part of Tony that knew his biological father was about to take a serious financial hit couldn't help but to cackle and giggle in morbid amusement.

"Surely you do not expect cash," Smidt said incredulously. Tony shook his head and reached into his pocket for a slip of paper Ziva had given him earlier.

"Contact this man," DiNozzo ordered. "Tell him that Tomás says hello and that the wine he gave me last fall was exquisite. He will then give you routing instructions for the money." When Smidt began to speak, Tony continued over her. "Over the next two weeks," he said, "you will begin transferring funds to the accounts he provides you in increments of no more than ten thousand Euros. When my people are satisfied you aren't trying to screw me over with a fake transfer or some sort of virus, I will contact you with further instructions regarding the delivery of Domino."

"We require more than empty promises, Herr D'Agostino." Smidt's tone was hard, so Tony matched it.

"I played your stupid game," he said sharply, "so now you play mine." The woman bit her lip, clearly on the verge of just walking away. "If you actually did your homework," Tony said, "then you know I _never _renege on a deal." That had been a necessary part of his background; according to the history made up by Mossad and NCIS, Tomás D'Agostino's word was so important to him that he had allowed his first wife, a woman he truly and deeply loved, to be killed in a staged accident to shift attention away from his less than legal business practices.

For a _very _long time, Regine Smidt simply studied him, conflict written on her face. Tony crossed his arms and stared back, suddenly grateful for all the times he had to face down Gibbs when the ex-Marine was in a particularly foul mood. Compared to the force of nature that was Leroy Jethro Gibbs, Smidt was less intimidating than one of those yapping poodles with the poofy hair, especially if it was painted purple with yellow polka dots.

"This decision is above your pay grade, isn't it?" Tony asked suddenly with a condescending smile on his face. He nodded toward her cell, ignoring the flash of annoyance in her eyes. "Call your bosses," he suggested, "and get orders. Because this opportunity expires in-" He glanced at his watch. "Ten minutes. Starting now."

Without another word, he turned away and walked to the edge of the pier where he began admiring a yacht docked nearby. It reminded him of the boat owned by Le Chiffre in the recent Bond reboot, _Casino Royale. _Idly, Tony wondered how much it cost and whether making love to Ziva on it was any different than on a waterbed.

"That was dangerous," the subject of his musings murmured through the earpiece, "but effective." Tony could hear the smile in her voice when she continued. "And _quite_ arousing. Remind me to tear your clothes off with my teeth tonight."

"It's a date," Tony muttered under his breath. He refused to look over his shoulder at Smidt to see if she was making the call. Tomás D'Agostino wouldn't care. Tomás D'Agostino _didn't _care. "This is a lovely boat," he called out to the man moving around the deck.

"Thank you, sir," the man replied in accented English. He was stout without being fat and was clearly proud of his yacht. "You are a boatman?"

"Not exactly," Tony replied, "but I know beauty when I see it." The man beamed.

"Herr D'Agostino." Smidt's voice interrupted what was looking to be a nice conversation, and Tony gave the man a quick nod before glancing at his watch. He grunted.

"Three minutes," he remarked with feigned surprise. "I figured at least five."

"Your conditions are acceptable," Smidt said tightly. She didn't look happy, which made Tony wonder how badly she was going to get reamed by the higher ups. "We will begin transfer as soon as your … associate provides us the routing numbers."

"Don't bother calling until tomorrow morning," Tony said. "He's already gone home by now and he _doesn't _work nights." Smidt glowered.

"I do not think I need to threaten you, Herr D'Agostino," she said, "but a reminder may be in order: my employers will _not _be pleased if you fail to live up to your end of our agreement."

"That sounded vaguely like a threat after all, Miss Smidt." Tony grinned. "But I forgive you since I'm about to become a very wealthy man." He nodded toward the yacht moored nearby. "I might even get a couple of those to go with the tropical island I'm thinking about buying."

"Good day, Herr D'Agostino," Smidt snapped before turning away and marching toward a waiting car. Her two bodyguards fell into step behind her, one of which had retrieved her briefcase.

"You know," Tony mumbled, "I get the feeling she doesn't like me much."

"That is what happens when you do not use the deodorant I bought you," Ziva replied instantly. "Proceed to the rendezvous point," she ordered.

"Not yet," DiNozzo replied. He turned back to the yacht. "Check out the two girls that sat down next to me," he said. Ziva's exasperated hiss caused him to smile. "Neither one of them even blinked when I mentioned a kill list to Smidt," he continued under his breath, "and they've been giving me the hairy eyeball since she left."

"And you complain about _my _English," Ziva muttered. "Confirmed. They are watching you too closely for it to be anything but surveillance." She was silent for a moment. "Good catch," she added with a hint of surprise in her voice.

"I'll stall for a bit," Tony said. "See if they get bored or pass me off to someone else." Ziva grunted, and DiNozzo could almost imagine her nodding. "Excuse me, sir," he called out as he approached the yacht. The man rose from where he was coiling rope. "Tomás D'Agostino," Tony said as he offered a hand. "I couldn't trouble you for a quick tour, could I?" The man hesitated, obviously not entirely sure how to respond, and Tony flashed his most charming smile. "I'm about to come into some money," he explained, "and I'm thinking about buying a boat like this for my wife." He waggled his eyebrows. _"And _my mistress."

The man laughed out loud.

And Ziva snorted.

* * *

**A/N #2:** Never been to Stockholm, but from all the photos I've seen, it looks beautiful ...

Regarding the sister, can I say her full name is Rosalita, but everyone calls her Rosita? Pretty please?

A little annoyed 'cause I just saw a screengrab from Ziva's NCIS application from 7x03 that has her year of birth as 1982 ... which makes _no _sense whatsoever. It puts Ziva at a ridiculous 22 years of age at the beginning of "Kill Ari," which is just patently stupid based on their implication that she's been in active field service for years. Israel has a mandatory 2 year term of service in the military for all citizens, which means she would be at the bare minimum 19 while leaving the military. In "Dead Man Walking," she implied having attended college (3 years for a bachelor's equivalent instead of the American 4 years), and she's got contacts all over the world which further implies several years in the field (especially with many of her comments to Tony during season 3.) Shepard said they worked together in '01 ... which would make Ziva 19 at the time ... right about the time she _might _be exiting the military. I scoff at the prop department's utter FAIL there ... for the effect of this story (and to actually make some sort of sense), I'm placing her date of birth in 1976, which puts her at 31 during this particular story (and slightly older than Cote's 1979 birthdate.)


	72. The Widening Gyre, 22: Tim

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: **Rated **M **for language and violence.

* * *

**Tim**

Time was running out.

Tim could see the fear and worry on the faces of the Mossad team growing with each hour that passed without progress. It only increased his belief that most of these men were the equivalent of probies, and if he hadn't been so unbelievably tired, McGee might have started plotting a way to use their lack of experience against them. With a few well-placed comments, a skilled agent could get these men at one another's throats, which would give him enough time to send a message out that would bring in the cavalry. It was something a smart ass like Tony could probably pull off without even breaking a sweat.

But at the moment, it was all Tim could do to focus on the computer screen in front of him without passing out.

The urge to just put his head down for a few seconds was growing increasingly difficult to ignore, and McGee knew his work was suffering because of it. He was beginning to make stupid mistakes, errors that were normally beneath his skill level. What was worse, though, was his automatic tendency to fix his _intentional _coding errors while in this sleep-deprived stupor.

"It is Tel Aviv," one of the young Mossad operatives said in accented English as he approached an equally exhausted-looking Moshe to give him a cell phone. Harari glared at the man as he yanked the cell out of his fingers and answered in a low voice.

_"Shalom," _he said. The rest of the conversation was in rapid-fire Hebrew that Tim couldn't understand, although from Harari's body language, it was pretty clear that he was being chewed out by someone. McGee grimaced when his tired brain finally pieced together the information in front of him: Tel Aviv meant Mossad headquarters, which meant this little operation was official. Had Ziva known? He certainly hoped not.

"You need to work faster!" Moshe directed toward McGee the moment he hung up the phone.

"What I need," Tim retorted through a jaw-cracking yawn, "is sleep and some food." When Harari glowered, McGee rubbed his eyes. "Real food," he said, "not cheesy poofs and Red Bull."

"Your sister," Harari began, but Tim interrupted.

"In case you didn't notice," he snapped, "I've been awake for sixty hours straight." Moshe blinked. "I can't think straight, the monitor is all blurry, and I've got so much caffeine in my system that my hands are shaking." He pointed at the mess of drives and cables and CPUs on the table in front of him. "This thing was designed by the Navy's top computer guys," he pointed out angrily. "Breaking into it is _not _going to be easy." Harari glared but finally nodded.

"Two hours," he said.

"Six," Tim countered quickly.

"So your Agent Gibbs has more time to look for you?" Moshe snorted. "I think not. Three hours and not a minute longer." McGee shrugged as he pushed himself to his feet and started stumbling toward the door leading to the bedroom where Abby and Sarah were still being held. The guard at the door gave Harari a questioning look before opening the door.

"You look terrible," Sarah said as Tim entered the room. She and Abby were still shackled to the bed by handcuffs, but they at least looked vaguely comfortable.

"It's the new hammered crap collection," McGee mumbled as he gave the two women a quick glance to make sure they hadn't been abused. He exhaled in relief when Abby gave a discreet shake of her head to the question he knew was in his eyes. "Only available at Sears," he added.

"Just remember rule number nine and you'll be fine," Abby said brightly, her eyes locked firmly on Tim. McGee blinked – that was the one about not going anywhere without a knife, wasn't it? – and the moment his sleep-deprived brain realized what she was talking about, Abby slowly lowered her gaze to her belt.

And the knife disguised as a buckle.

Instantly, Tim felt a rush of adrenaline course through his body, temporarily washing away the fatigue dulling his reflexes. He licked his lips and crossed the small room to sit down on the edge of the bed, conscious of the open door leading to the rest of the house and the guard just outside the room who was watching them with a decided lack of interest. Sarah's eyes widened in surprise when McGee caressed Abby's face with his left hand.

"I always do," Tim said in response to Abby's comment. He let his other hand drop down to her belt where, concealed from the guard's view by McGee's own body, he began working the knife free.

"When did you two get back-" Sarah's question ended in a muffled yelp when Abby kicked her in the shin, and her eyes widened slightly when she saw Tim palm the knife.

"A dead hero," Abby whispered softly, her voice pitched for McGee's ears only, "isn't any good to anyone."

Tim didn't have the chance to respond.

The howl of a diesel engine and the screech of tires was the only warning they received before a Dodge Ram 2500 smashed through the front door of the house with an explosion of plaster and wood. One of the Mossad agents was caught unprepared and sent flying from the impact, crashing against the wall with a bone-jarring thud and crumpling into an unmoving heap. For inexperienced operatives, their captors responded quickly, and within seconds, the house was filled with gunfire. His back to the open door, the guard that had let Tim into the bedroom drew his pistol and began firing at the truck, completely ignoring (or forgetting about) McGee.

It was the last mistake the man ever made.

Throwing himself off the bed, Tim rushed the guard, Abby's belt knife clenched tightly in his right hand. In the last instant before he collided with his target, the Mossad agent half-turned and tried to defend against McGee's attack, but the man's shift of position turned an incapacitating strike into a lethal one. Powered by all of Tim's fear and anger and desperation, the knife cut through the guard's exposed throat, slicing into the jugular and spraying both of them with a geyser of crimson. The man gurgled – Tim thought it was intended to be a scream of pain, but the damage to guard's throat prevented any sound from escaping – and instinctively grabbed at the gushing wound, dropping his weapon in the process. McGee struck again, this time stabbing the blade into the man's chest and feeling the shock of the knife striking bone travel up his arm. His eyes wide, the guard crumpled, still trying to staunch the flow of blood from his ruined throat, and Tim let him fall as he scrambled for the dropped pistol. The moment he touched the sidearm, he was scanning for another target, another threat to Abby or Sarah.

The living room had disintegrated into pure chaos. A pair of dark clad, camouflaged and hooded figures knelt in the bed of the Dodge Ram, using the intact metal of the truck as cover while they laid down a withering barrage of suppressive fire with assault rifles. At least three of the Mossad guards were already down, gruesome wounds spurting as their ravaged bodies slowly shut down, and the survivors – all five of them – were lurking behind whatever cover they could find while exchanging shots with the newcomers. The truck itself was a total wreck, with the cab and front end almost smashed flat from the impact against the house wall. Tim didn't know who the figures were – and frankly didn't care either – as he drew a bead on the nearest of the Mossad operatives and fired the pistol. It kicked harder than he was accustomed to, but his aim was true and the man fell, screaming in agony as the round punched through his spine.

A flash of movement out of the corner of his eye caused McGee to backpedal rapidly into the bedroom as he tried to swing the pistol around for a bead on the rapidly approaching figure, but the blood on the floor around him made the hardwood floor slippery and he dropped to one knee. Caught unprepared for his sudden change in posture, Moshe Harari's body tackle was too high to do more than send them both sprawling to the ground. The jarring thud of him hitting the floor knocked the pistol from his hand, but McGee was too busy scrambling to his feet and keeping an eye on Harari to do more than hiss a curse. With an inarticulate cry of rage, the Mossad officer lunged forward, driving his shoulder into Tim's stomach and slamming McGee back into the wall. His breath exploded from his lungs in a loud gasp and Tim didn't have time to even defend against the follow-up punch to the face. He hit the ground hard, stars dancing in his eyes, and Moshe pounced on him, fists and knees flying. Pain ripped away coherence.

And, for the span of a heartbeat, Timothy McGee nearly gave up.

"Tim!" His sister's cry pierced the haze of agony shrouding his senses and McGee lashed out with his own fist. It was little more than a glancing blow against Harari's jaw but caught the Mossad officer off-balance and sent him staggering back. Tim flailed out, his hands desperately searching for some sort of weapon, and his fingers touched wet metal.

Abby's knife.

He grabbed the blade as if it were a life preserver and he was a drowning man, ripping it free from the corpse of the man slumped outside the bedroom door. Moshe's eyes widened at the sight of the blade and he took a half step back, shaking his head rapidly as if to clear it which gave McGee just enough time to leap to his feet.

They circled.

And Moshe smiled.

Tim realized his error almost instantly: the pistol he'd lost when Harari tackled him was now at Moshe's feet. He drew in a sharp breath, tensed his muscles, and readied himself for a suicidal charge. It didn't matter if he died as long as Abby and Sarah were okay. He narrowed his eyes, met Moshe's gaze, and felt a rush of gratification at the open fear he saw there. Harari went for the gun.

At the very same moment that Abby threw a pillow at him.

As distractions went, it wasn't much, but Moshe's inexperience suddenly reared its head as he flinched away from the pillow, the brief hesitation lasting just long enough for McGee to reach him before the Mossad officer could touch the pistol. They smashed into dresser and twisted to the floor. Harari suddenly gasped, and a flood of liquid warmth washed over Tim's hand. Their eyes met.

"You killed me," Moshe said in a shocked voice. He looked down and McGee followed suit, suddenly unable to tear his eyes away from where the blade had punctured Harari's chest. It was exactly where the heart should be.

Thunder boomed through Tim's ears, though a part of him knew it was just his pulse. He could still hear gunfire and the screams of panicking young men suddenly facing their deaths, and it snapped him out of his stupor. Moshe didn't matter, not while there were still men out there who could hurt Abby and Sarah. He pushed himself off of Harari and knelt to pick up the pistol, forcing himself to ignore the agonized gasps coming from the dying Mossad officer at his feet.

From the bed, Abby was staring at him with tears in her eyes while a sobbing Sarah had buried her head against the Goth's shoulder so she wouldn't have to watch, but Tim forced a wan smile on his face as he limped toward the door. With the pistol braced and at the ready, he glanced into the living room and winced at the carnage he beheld. All of the Mossad agents were down and no wall seemed to have escaped damage. A third hooded figure had joined the first two as they fanned out, M4 carbines sweeping across the room to find new targets. Tim's arm came up on reflex to draw a bead on them in order to protect the women behind him but a voice froze him in place.

"McGee!"

It was Gibbs.

Relief flooded through Tim's body then, so intensely that his legs buckled. He watched with wide eyes as the three men approached, removing their ninja hoods and revealing their identities. Agent Fornell was enough of a surprise – although now that he thought about it, Tim realized it made perfect sense that Gibbs would go to the FBI agent for help – but seeing Deputy Director Vance in full battle regalia – and looking totally at ease, some part of McGee noted – was such a shock that Tim barely heard the question Gibbs posed to him.

"What?" Tim asked, tearing his eyes away from the grim looking Vance to meet the intensely worried stare of Jethro Gibbs.

"Are you hit?" his boss repeated and McGee glanced down, only then realizing that his clothes were drenched in the blood of the two men he'd killed with Abby's knife. He swallowed the lump in his throat and shook his head.

"I'm … I'm good, Boss," he said hesitantly.

"He's more than good!" Abby exclaimed loudly. Gibbs shoved by McGee, visibly relaxing at the sight of the two women. "You should have seen it, Gibbs! He kicked _ass!"_

"I can tell," Gibbs said with a wry smile as he glanced in the direction of the unmoving Moshe Harari. "Good job, Tim," he added.

"Damned good job," Deputy Director Vance added. "Is that what I think it is on the dining room table?" McGee nodded.

"Yes, sir," he said. He ran a shaking hand through his hair while Gibbs and Fornell began working on the handcuffs keeping Abby and Sarah in place. "Are Tony and Ziva…"

"They're fine, McGee," Gibbs said. Tim exhaled another relieved breath before looking down. The accumulated stress of the last two days – or was it three? – hit him all at once.

"Boss?" Gibbs glanced at him. "Permission to pass out?" The silver-haired ex-Marine smiled.

"Permission granted," he said.

So Tim closed his eyes and let everything go away for awhile.

* * *

**A/N #2:** It's not official, but I generally think of this chapter as "Probie's Revenge." Heh.

Regarding Ziva's birth year, a reminder may need to be in order that this story takes place in an AU season 5 ... which is basically 2 years ago. The timeline I am using for her is thus: she enlists in the IDF at the age of 18 (1994) because, according to the IDF website, that's the minimum age allowed. After completing her two year term of service (mentioned on the show, but I can't remember the episode) in 1996, she goes to the University of Tel Aviv (referenced in "Dead Man Walking") for 3 years (96-99) where she earns her bachelor's equivalent. It is not only possible but in fact highly likely that she is already joined Mossad at this point; I have no way of knowing if Mossad has any special courses at the university, but if so, she likely takes them. I'm going to say that she majors in International Relations with a Minor in Languages. During this time (say, 1998 or '99), Tali is killed by the Hamas bombing, so Ziva graduates and promptly volunteers for Metsada assassination operations (to assuage the 'blood in her eyes' that she has at the time, reference "Kill Ari.") She is an active Metsada operative from '99 to 2005 (6 years), during which time she rises to _Katsas_ (case officer) status and meets Jennifer Shepard in '01 (Ziva is 25 at the time.) She becomes Ari's _katsa _probably in '02, and joins NCIS in '05 at the age of 29. Part 2 of _Transitional States _takes place in 2007, making her 31. Using the '76 birth year, she would be 33 during season 7.


	73. The Widening Gyre, 23: Ziva

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: **Rated **M **for language, sexual situations, violence.

* * *

**Ziva**

They departed Sweden the morning after Tony's confrontation with Smidt.

By the time they landed in Edinburgh, Ziva was ready to throttle her partner. He had spent the duration of the short flight to Scotland flirting with the pretty young Swedish flight attendant and espousing the talents of the late, great Ingrid Bergman. Ziva recognized a coping mechanism when she saw it – Rivkin's continued silence on all fronts was troublesome and she knew Tony was still distracted by the sanction notice on Lisa Stavi – and it was for that reason alone that she held her tongue. At least he wasn't resorting to alcohol like Michael had so often done in the past.

Still, Ziva seriously considered giving Tony a Gibbs slap just to shut him up.

Once in Edinburgh, they spent the rest of the day crisscrossing the city, ostensibly sight-seeing but in actuality it was an attempt to identify the shadows Ziva knew they had picked up at the airport. She wasn't sure if they were local authorities, assassins in pursuit of Lisa Stavi, or operatives of the organization that Smidt represented, but in the end, it really didn't matter. There were three teams of two in pursuit, and they rotated at random intervals in an attempt to avoid a single person spending too much time near her and DiNozzo. Tony compared it to a zone defense in football – Ziva assumed he was referring to the American version, but even if he wasn't, she did not quite comprehend the reference as her interest in organized team sports was nonexistent at best. A fourth team joined the previous three late in the day and, during the brief moment of confusion that the 'shift change' caused, she and Tony walked into the Spire Murrayfield Hospital. They exited through a doctor's side entrance, 'borrowed' a car, and left the surveillance teams scrambling to find them.

For the next two days, they maintained as low profile as possible, with Ziva grudgingly allowing Tony to venture out of their hotel room (rented under a false identity acquired in Stockholm before their departure) alone to do some necessary shopping while she continued to try and make contact with Michael or her father. She checked in with her partner every five to ten minutes, and if he was annoyed at how often she called, he managed to hide it from her. For her part, Ziva didn't relax until he returned to their room and shut the door behind him. When he returned today, there was a bright grin on his face and several large bags in his hands.

Ziva looked through his purchases, rolling her eyes at the clothes he'd bought for her. That he knew her sizes wasn't a surprise, but his taste? Well, they ran toward the skutty – slanky? No, that wasn't right. Stupid English – and she set aside the negligee with a shake of her head. The rest of his purchases were clearly meant as gifts for the D.C. team. There were several tin cans of a local tea Ziva knew Ducky would appreciate, some Scottish-themed jewelry including a beautiful cross pendant likely intended for Abby, and a bottle of Caol Ila single malt scotch whisky that was most definitely meant for Gibbs.

"Nothing for Tim?" she asked. Tony's eyes twinkled as he handed her a receipt. Ziva accepted it and frowned. "I do not understand," she said.

"I'm sending him a translated copy of _Deep Six,_" he replied with a snicker. "One a day until they run out of languages." Ziva glanced up to find Tony on the verge of hysterical laughter. "Do you know how many languages it was actually translated into?" he asked before giggling. Ziva shook her head and looked away to hide her own smile.

"Were you followed?" she asked as she turned her attention back to the laptop in front of her.

"At least twice though I ditched them," Tony replied, the words causing her to glance up at him. "They're CIA," he said, reaching into his jacket and extracting a folded envelope. "Hired a street punk to lift one of their wallets and got lucky." He pulled a sheet of paper from the envelope and offered it to her. Ziva frowned.

A copy of an Agency memorandum, the print-out was the equivalent of a CIA BOLO, with her official Mossad photograph prominently displayed above the name 'Elisheva Stavi.' To her slight surprise, there were explicit orders against any Agency operative attempting to apprehend or eliminate her, regardless of the Mossad directive to do so.

"They want to recruit me," she guessed with some surprise.

"Or at least pump you for information," Tony added. He was no longer smiling and, to her disgust, Ziva realized that his earlier good humor had probably been feigned. She wondered when he had become so adept at concealing his true emotions and why it had taken her so long to realize it. "Thing is," he said slowly, "I'm not exactly sure how far we can actually trust the CIA. Knowing them, that's part of some elaborate rope-a-dope intended to put you in an awkward position down the road."

"Agreed." Ziva watched silently as Tony turned his attention to the packing of his gifts for delivery. His shoulders were taut with concern and stress lines were beginning to show on his face, though he was making every effort to hide how much of a toll this operation was taking on him both physically and mentally. "You need to sleep," she said suddenly. He looked at her, dark shadows under his eyes, and for a moment, she thought he was going to obey.

"What's the word from your accountant?" DiNozzo asked instead. The gifts stowed away safely, he took a seat on the edge of the bed and watched her with that too bright stare of his. She missed the humorous glint that used to be there, the one that told everyone that he didn't take life seriously (even if he did.)

"Contact was made," she replied carefully, not entirely comfortable with discussing the man in question. At the moment, Tony remained unaware that part of her instructions to the Austrian private banker laundering the funds received from Smidt was to divert a tiny percentage of every transaction into private accounts under hers and Tony's and Michael's names. She considered it suitable recompense for the stress this op had put on both of them and, even when the mission was complete, had no plans to report those errant monies. The accounts would fall through the cracks and vanish like so much smoke, while remaining available for future use. It was a retirement fund, really, and one that would allow them all to live in luxury for the rest of their lives.

Not that she had really given much thought to what the future might hold for any of them.

"That's pretty vague," Tony said after a few seconds of silence. Ziva shrugged.

"By necessity," she retorted. She balled up the CIA paper and bounced it off his head, hoping he would comprehend her worry that they might be under surveillance at this very moment. Tony's reflexes were dulled by exhaustion, but he still managed to catch the paper before it hit the ground.

"You think…" he started, his eyes locked onto the trash he now held in his hand.

"I do," Ziva said in response to his unfinished question. Instantly, the wariness returned to his eyes.

"Next step?" he asked.

"Sleep," she replied, "and then we find Michael."

Tony slept fitfully that night, tossing and turning in such a way that Ziva knew he wasn't getting any actual rest. When he jolted awake for the third time in under an hour, she took matters into her own hands – or rather, her mouth – which relaxed him enough that he was able to slip into a light slumber. With the CIA getting involved, she needed him coherent and capable, not the mindless and frankly useless zombie he turned into when he couldn't sleep. The sound of his soft snores was oddly soothing, though Ziva herself never actually dozed off for longer than a few minutes. When the alarm sounded at zero four, she was already awake and ready to get out of Scotland. A sleepless night meant too much time to consider the various possibilities regarding Michael's fate.

And, by the time they exited the plane in Quebec, Ziva was as close to an actual panic attack that she had ever been.

To someone who did not know her very well, there were few visible indications of how positively terrified she was over Michael's continued silence, but Tony, who shared her worry, weathered her quicksilver moods and sharp tongue during the flight as best as he could without losing his own temper. Midway over the Atlantic, they hit a flashpoint though, with Ziva's muted fury at her father being so willing to sign her death warrant spilling into her concern that she would have to bury another friend from Mossad. Exhausted and stressed over this never-ending mission, her comments turned caustic and cutting, which resulted in an immediate and equally fierce response from Tony. Only their sense of professionalism – and when exactly had the immature, sexist _mamzer_ with the fantastic ass and killer smile she'd first met learned _that? _– allowed them to keep their voices low so their bitter argument couldn't be overheard by the other first class passengers. It ended like all of their quarrels ended these days, with Tony storming away to the lavatory in a fit of rage and Ziva following him.

And then, sex that was hard, fast and so cathartic that it should have required a medical prescription.

The flight attendants were not amused in the slightest when she and Tony made it back to their seats, and by the envious looks many of the other passengers were sending them, they had not been as quiet as Ziva had thought. She dozed for an hour or so afterward, waking instantly when Tony gave her a mild elbow to the ribs and a muttered complaint about her snoring. Frowning darkly – like _he _had anything to talk about – Ziva had stared out the window for the rest of the trip, her worry for Michael returning and growing exponentially with each passing second.

"What now?" Tony asked the moment they were off the plane. They had very little in the way of bags – DiNozzo had mailed the gifts from the Edinburgh airport so as to avoid Customs delays – so wasting time at the luggage carousel was not necessary. Ziva bit her lower lip as she spent a few seconds scanning the airport for anyone she might recognize or might be acting vaguely suspicious.

"We need a car," she said calmly, rolling her eyes almost before the words finished tumbling from her lips. "Something _discreet_ for a change."

"My idea of discreet or yours?" Tony asked with a smile that didn't actually touch his eyes. "And that wasn't what I was talking about," he added before angling toward a car rental booth. The young woman behind the counter was attractive – in a pale, washed out, barely-out-of-diapers sort of way – and Ziva grit her teeth when her partner instinctively turned on the charm. It wasn't entirely necessary since they had the funds to easily _buy_ any car they wanted, which led Ziva to suspect he was doing it to get back at her for some of the remarks she'd made to him on the plane.

"Hope a Toyota Camry is good enough," he said several long minutes later when he rejoined her, twirling a set of keys around his left index finger while clutching the complimentary newspaper in his other hand. "They had a couple of minivans," Tony added when Ziva snatched the keys away from him, "but I'd rather be shot than seen in one of those death traps."

"It will do," Ziva said. She headed for the nearest exit, but Tony caught her elbow and nodded in a different direction. The smile he gave had a sharp, bitter edge to it, and Ziva swallowed the harsh words on the tip of her tongue. She was frustrated and angry, tired and worried, and knew if she said something right now, it would be the wrong thing.

Neither spoke as they walked to their car and, without a word of complaint, Tony slid into the passenger seat. He blew out a deep breath and leaned back against the headrest, flipping open the newspaper as he relaxed.

"A guy could get used to being chauffeured around by a beautiful woman like this," he remarked wryly. It was the closest thing to an actual apology she would likely hear, and Ziva smirked. Obviously, Gibbs had taught Tony well.

"When this is over," she replied, "I will expect _you _to do the driving for a change."

"Only if I get to pick the car," DiNozzo retorted. His breath caught. "I think I've got a good idea where Mike was," he said before shoving the paper to her. She gave the article a quick glance, grimacing at the lurid headlines about local authorities preventing a terrorist attack. An artist's representation of a person of interest captured her attention and she swallowed at Michael's familiar features.

"Wonderful," Ziva growled as she shifted the Camry into drive and stomped on the accelerator. "We should have known better than to leave him alone," she muttered angrily. "I do not think Michael can go a week without blowing something up." Tony snorted.

He spent the entire trip on the phone, calling every single contact number they had for Michael, Moshe or Livni. Most were disconnected or automatically transferred his call to a message service, but two – one of Moshe's numbers and one of … Ari's – were picked up, although no one actually answered. They were ten minutes away from their destination when Tony dialed another number that Ziva did not see.

"Unsecured," he said sharply. "I need immediate contact." He hung up.

"Who was that?" Ziva asked.

"Nobody," Tony replied. "Answering service for a contact number." When she glanced at him, he frowned. "Deputy Director Vance," he said in reply to the question in her eyes. "He needs to know if Michael has been compromised," DiNozzo added grimly. Ziva nodded.

And tried not to think about burying another friend.

Tony's phone buzzed several moments later and he gave it a quick glance before shoving it toward her so she could make out the text message. It was an address and a quick line of apparent gibberish that she recognized as a Mossad code indicating that the sender was safe and not under duress. Still, they exercised caution by parking on the other side of the target – a run-down motel next to a truck stop – and pretended to study a map while actually looking for signs of an ambush.

"There's Livni," Tony said a moment after Ziva had caught sight of … Ari emerging from a room with a bucket. They watched as he made his way to a nearby ice machine, pausing to flirt with two women Ziva suspected to be prostitutes, before retracing his steps to the room. At the threshold of his door, he placed his left hand on the door with the fingers parted between the middle and ring fingers. Ziva recognized the sign as part of the _Nesiat Kapayim_ and smiled at the younger man's inventiveness; it was a perfect way to confirm that he was not under duress.

"Doesn't he realize," Tony asked a moment later, "that being able to do the Vulcan salute won't get him chicks?"

Ziva rolled her eyes.

* * *

**A/N #2:** Yes, I intended for Tony and Ziva to be at odds throughout this chapter. Consider, if you will, this is very likely the longest stretch of time where they've just been together and haven't had someone watching over their shoulder, so they're having ... growing pains, if you will. I've always thought that a romantic relationship between them would involve lots of angry fights and make-up sex, and it isn't realistic that they're _not _going to get pissed off at one another every now and then given their respective personalities. Real relationships don't work like that.

And it kind of figures: the one episode this season that I've watched live instead of a DVR recording and it flat out sucked. An episode involving Mossad secret missions and gunfights with automatic weapons aboard a ship is _not _supposed to be boring, and I was disgusted to see Ziva right back where she was last season with the lying and deceiving members of the team she's trying to officially join (since she knew Cryer was USMC from the get-go and lied about it.) I had been hoping she truly had 'gotten over herself,' but apparently not. And finally, Gibbs is a complete idiot. Everyone knows that Ziva has PTSD (pretty damned obvious just by watching her) and she admitted to having recent had suicidal tendencies, yet his solution is to give her a gun and put her in the field where she's supposed to be covering the backs of the other team members? Not only is that stupid, but it's also dangerous.

Needless to say, I was not impressed with 7x04 in the slightest. Extremely poorly written with too many plot inconsistencies or outright plot holes. And I'm officially sick of the Eli David characterization.


	74. The Widening Gyre, 24: Jethro

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: **Rated **M **for language, sexual situations, violence.

* * *

**Jethro**

He had to admit, watching Leon Vance rant at the director of Mossad was a thing of beauty.

The deputy director's face was tight with fury, though whether it was the nature of the discussion or how long it had taken Eli David's personal assistant to track down the man, Jethro didn't quite know. Leon had spent the last three days trying to reach David who had been sequestered at a secret confab for the last week in Brussels along with the directors of several other intelligence agencies – CIA, MI6, the Canadian SIS, the French DGSE, and Germany's Bundesnachrichtendienst just to name a few – and with each hour that had elapsed without the Mossad director returning the call, Gibbs had seen Vance's mood sour that much more. Initially, Jethro had assumed that Jenny was at the conference too – this sort of meeting sounded right up her alley – but the revelation that she was in Dallas only furthered Gibbs' suspicions about her state of health.

He pushed the thought away for future worries; now was not the time to get distracted.

"I am _this close _to releasing the identities of your men to the press, Director," Vance growled, holding his hand up with his index finger and thumb bare inches apart, "so unless you can convince me otherwise, I'd recommend you start preparing your defense for when the Knesset charges you." David's eyes widened in surprise – so did Jethro's – but Leon pressed on, the anger nearly rolling off him in waves. "Give me one good reason I shouldn't call Prime Minister Olmert immediately."

"This is the first I am learning of this situation, Leon," David said grimly. He looked shocked. "Officer Harari should not even _be _in the United States."

"I wish I could believe that, Director," Vance said, "but we know for a fact that he received a telephone call from Tel Aviv on Sunday afternoon." David recoiled before a dark frown appeared on his face.

"It appears that my house is not in order, Deputy Director," he intoned ominously. "I will be returning to Tel Aviv immediately to deal with this apparent … breach." He shifted his attention to something off-screen and Gibbs was surprised to feel a flicker of pity for the poor bastard David was looking for. "Give me forty-eight hours, Leon. I will have answers for you then." The screen flickered off as David terminated the transmission.

"Well, that was uninformative," Leon declared before turning to face Gibbs.

"Think he was telling the truth?" Jethro asked as he stood.

"Yes," Vance said simply. "He was honestly surprised when I showed him the pictures of Harari abducting McGee." The deputy director gave Jethro a sidelong look. "Where did you come by those, anyway?" When Gibbs merely grunted, Leon smirked and shook his head in bemusement but dropped the line of questioning. "How _is_ Agent McGee, by the way?"

"Recovering," Gibbs replied flatly. He shivered despite himself, and wondered if he would ever be able to shake the heart-stopping memory: Tim McGee, the perennial probie, wearing blood-soaked dress pants and a tee shirt, standing in the doorway with a gun in his hands and death in his eyes. Jethro had no doubt whatsoever that McGee would have killed him without a second's hesitation if it would protect the two women Tim loved more than anyone else on the planet. From Abby's glowing description of her best friend's 'amazing martial prowess' (her exact words, which she had insisted on putting into the official report), Sarah's awe-struck stare at her brother as if she expected him to start leaping tall buildings in a single bound at any minute, and the state of the two corpses in the bedroom, McGee had been in the fight of his life.

And, for someone who hadn't had much formal training, he'd done a helluva job.

"I had Ducky check him out," Gibbs continued the report. "He's bruised, has a hairline fracture on his shoulder, and lost a tooth, but he'll survive."

"I wasn't talking about his physical condition, Jethro," the deputy director pointed out.

"Think I didn't know that?" Gibbs snapped before exhaling deeply. "He's still in shock – all three of them are – but I've got Ducky keeping an eye on him." Jethro's cell buzzed as the two men reached the door, and he glanced at the number – it was his home phone line – with mild surprise before comprehension dawned almost at once. He looked up to find Vance studying him.

"I gave the recall order," Leon said, "but … suggested they stay out of sight for a while. Think your boat can handle it?" Gibbs smirked.

"As long as they aren't in the damned shower again when I get home." Vance shook his head.

"That's an image I could have done without," he said before lowering his voice. "Go home, Jethro. Tell DiNozzo to keep out of sight. I'll contact him tomorrow or the next day for a debrief." Gibbs nodded.

He swept down into the bullpen a few minutes later, dismissing Lee for the day with a sharp jerk of his head. She obeyed instantly, grabbing her cell and heading for the elevator without even commenting. As she passed him, Jethro smelled the distinctive tang of talcum powder and … was that baby food? He shook the momentary confusion off and stopped in front of McGee's desk.

"Thought I told you to stay home," Gibbs said without preamble. Tim looked up, a haunted expression in his eyes.

"Sorry, Boss," he replied. "Just wanted to finish this report." The young man flinched with pain when he moved the wrong way before visibly straightening his shoulders and trying to hide his discomfort. Jethro shook his head.

"Get Abby," he ordered. "I want both of you at my place tonight. Bring your sister." When McGee opened his mouth to argue, Gibbs walked away.

It was, after all, the best way to conclude an argument shy of a head slap.

Exactly as he feared, Tony and Ziva were in the shower when he arrived – honestly, did they ever stop? – though from the looks on the faces of a bruised and battered Michael Rivkin and a disgustingly young-looking Livni, Jethro wasn't the only one who was sick of this sort of thing. DiNozzo and David had been bad enough when they _weren't _sleeping together; he couldn't imagine how rough it had to be around them now that they were. What made things worse was how far sound carried in his old house. Even the damned basement wasn't safe.

"They argued over … something," Rivkin explained flatly, accepting the offer of bourbon gladly. He downed it in a single swallow, wincing only slightly, and gladly accepted a refill. "Now they are making up."

"I think Officer David intentionally picks fights with him for this very reason," Livni grumbled, sounding at once envious and annoyed. Jethro gave him a sidelong glance, instinctively wincing when he saw that _this _Ari was sitting exactly where the _other _Ari had been when Ziva shot him.

"Tony is even worse," Rivkin countered. He glanced at his watch. "It will be another twenty, twenty-five minutes before we see them."

"The hell it will," Gibbs said. He marched across the basement to where the water heater was and, with a sharp kick to a specific spot, killed the hot water. The cries that resulted were far from pleasurable ones and Jethro smiled. He waited until he heard the shower turn off. "Get dressed," he bellowed, "and get your asses down here!" He turned to find the two Mossad officers beaming at him.

"I think that you and I shall get along quite well, Agent Gibbs," Rivkin said.

DiNozzo's expression was dark when he stormed into the basement several minutes later and Ziva's was only slightly less intense when she joined them shortly afterward. When Abby arrived nearly half an hour later, though, with a surprised Tim and confused Sarah in tow, the foul moods vanished at once. The Goth virtually threw herself at Tony with an ear-splitting squeal of excitement and only let him out of her bone-crushing hug to envelop Ziva in one. McGee initially hung back, his smile wan, but Tony noticed. DiNozzo momentarily frowned at the sling that immobilized Tim's right arm against his chest, but visibly ignored it from that point on.

"Probie!" he exclaimed with a grin that stripped a lot of the stress away from his face. "I never thought I'd say this, but it's great to see you!" Gibbs could see how Tim's hesitant return smile immediately caused Tony to tense even as he shook the younger man's hand.

"He did what?" Ziva's exclamation drew everyone's attention to where she stood in front of Abby and the Israeli woman's sharp gaze jumped immediately to McGee. Tim flushed deeply and looked down, as if embarrassed.

"Hey," Sarah said softly, nudging her brother with one shoulder. "You saved our life, Tim. Nothing to be ashamed of."

"I seem to have missed a scene in this movie," Tony remarked. His voice was eerily calm and Jethro gave him a quick, worried glance. In his experience, that tone of voice with DiNozzo was never a good thing.

"It was Moshe," Ziva said before slipping into rapid-fire Hebrew. With each word, Tony seemed to become more rigid, more tense. His eyes were too bright as he stared at McGee, and he wasn't blinking as often as he should.

"This is my fault," he whispered once Ziva stopped speaking.

"No," Rivkin corrected, his face and voice bleak. "It is Mossad's." The statement hung heavy in the basement and Jethro studied the faces of the three Israelis, noting with some surprise that they were all wearing identical expressions of outraged disgust. For veterans like Ziva or Michael, it was one thing, but for a relative rookie like Ari Livni, the revelation of how some factions in Tel Aviv acted had to be a terrible blow to his worldview.

"Enough," Gibbs snapped. "What's done is done." He waited for a heartbeat to make sure he had their attention and then began issuing orders. "Abby, you and Sarah go order us some pizzas."

"Can I call Ducky?" the Goth asked.

"Just don't mention Tony or Ziva by name," Gibbs answered. "McGee, I want you off your feet."

"Boss…"

"Don't argue with him when he gets like this, Probie," Tony said in a stage whisper. "Just roll with it or he'll give you a headslap."

"Shut up, DiNozzo," Gibbs said. "You," he said, aiming his next comments to Rivkin. "We're going to need more bourbon."

"And Caf-Pow!" Abby interjected. Jethro grunted before turning toward Livni.

"And you," he said. "Go take a shower. You stink."

"The hot water?" Jethro pointed in the direction of the water heater.

"You saw where I kicked it earlier?" Livni nodded. "Kick it again."

"That was uncalled for, Gibbs," Tony muttered. Ziva nodded in agreement.

"So was the two of you playing grab ass in my shower," Jethro retorted. He swept his eyes over the assembled group of people. "Why are you still standing here?" he demanded. "Move!"

They moved.

The pizzas disappeared with alarming speed, and Gibbs returned from a visit to the bathroom to discover most of his guests hunched together in one of DiNozzo's ridiculous campfires at the kitchen table. Their voices were pitched low to avoid waking Abby or Sarah, both of whom were slumped together on the couch in the living room under the watchful eye of an amused Ducky, but Gibbs could see that the earlier frivolity that had surrounded the team had been replaced by an air grim determination. He paused and watched for a moment, feeling an unexpected sense of paternal pride at how well Tony and Tim had turned out.

"It was a good fake," McGee was saying, "but it was _definitely _not the real thing."

"Which means Kort still has the actual Domino database," Rivkin said. Jethro blinked.

"What?" he hissed as he stalked forward, his sudden appearance causing Tim to jump. "Trent Kort? Of the CIA?"

"He's the piece of crap who tasered Mike in Canada," Tony said.

"Actually," Rivkin interjected, "I suspect Harari did that." Gibbs grunted.

"Something to add, Boss?" Tony asked, the honorific automatically falling from his lips.

"Kort pointed me to the house Mossad was using," Jethro revealed. Silence descended upon the group.

"If I may hazard a suggestion," Ducky said softly, "this sounds like a derivation of the old Trojan Horse gambit made famous by Homer's _Iliad._" At the sidelong glances he received, the Scotsman smiled. "You see, the Achaeans – you would call them the Greeks – could not get past the great walls of Ilion – which is what they called Troy – so they devised a giant statue of a horse-"

"Duck." Gibbs' address caused the doctor to break off in mid-sentence and smile sheepishly.

"How good of a fake is it, McGee?" Tony asked as he leaned back in his seat.

"No, Tony," Ziva said flatly. The two locked gazes.

"You got a better idea?" DiNozzo asked. When she glanced down, glowering at the table, Tony shifted his attention back to McGee. "Well?"

"If I found the coding irregularities," Tim replied, "somebody else will too." He licked his lips. "But I think I can add another layer of encryption onto the database, something that'll make it harder for them to find the errors."

"How long?" Tony's eyes were bright and eager again, and he leaned forward on his seat.

"Couple of days," McGee said. "Maybe a week." Tim shot a glance at Gibbs. "Twice that if we get a case."

"Your accountant's going to need at least that long, right?" Tony asked of Ziva. She exchanged a look with Rivkin – he half shrugged, half-nodded – before sighing and nodding. "We follow the original plan," DiNozzo decided, his comments directed more to Rivkin than anyone else. "Probie here gives us the data, I give it to Smidt-"

_"We,"_ Ziva corrected sharply, though Tony kept on talking as if she hadn't said anything.

"-and then you Mossad ninjas do your thing." He exhaled. "Good guys win, everybody goes home. How's that for a plan?"

"That was a plan?" Ziva asked harshly. "It is a _terrible _plan."

"I concur," Rivkin said. "There are too many variables that could go wrong."

"Deal with it tomorrow," Gibbs interrupted. "You two get the spare bedroom," he said, his eyes encompassing Livni and Rivkin. Tony started to frown, and Jethro turned on him and Ziva. "The two of you get the basement." He leaned forward. "And there will _no _grab-assing down there. Am I clear?"

"Crystal, Boss."

"Yes, Gibbs."

The two exchanged quick sidelong looks clearly not intended to be noticed by anyone – Jethro wondered if they realized how often they did that sort of thing, even before they'd started sleeping together – and Gibbs closed his eyes. The thought of these two in his basement … near his boat … _alone _… it made him shudder.

So he headslapped them both, knowing it wouldn't do a lick of good and that he'd have to steam clean the basement floor once they were gone. Hell, he might just put down a new layer of concrete just to be safe.

Gibbs retired to the master bedroom shortly thereafter, unable to shake a growing sense of unease. This entire Domino situation didn't feel right, not with Kort and the damned CIA getting involved and apparently playing multiple sides against one another. He trusted Ziva to keep an eye on DiNozzo and prevent him from doing something stupid, but it wasn't hard to see that Tony was on the edge of burnout. As a cop and investigator, DiNozzo was one of the best, but this was covert operations and he just didn't have the training for it. Ziva was barely holding him together and probably didn't even realize how close Tony was to losing it since her eyes were too blinded by this relationship the two had going. Rivkin saw though, that much Jethro could tell from the way the Mossad officer watched the two when they weren't looking. He saw and was just as worried as Gibbs. For the sake of DiNozzo's sanity, this mission needed to end and soon.

Sleep was a long time coming.

* * *

**A/N #2:** Oh, I forgot to mention that the Mossad officer in 7x04 (Malachi Ben-Gidon, as played by T.J. Ramini) is physically pretty close to how I envisioned Ari Livni, albeit Livni is about 12 years younger.


	75. The Widening Gyre, 25: Tony

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: **Rated **M **for language, sexual situations, violence.

* * *

**Tony**

From the moment he stepped off the plane, Tony couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.

He wasn't able to put his finger on what was making the hair on the back of his neck stand up or why his every instinct was screaming that he was in danger, but it was there nonetheless. At any other time, he would have trusted his gut and aborted this entire meeting, but Tony knew his instincts were knocked askew by the fact that he was, once again, in Moscow. Everywhere he looked, he was reminded of Dana lying in a pool of her own blood, or the young medical student, Nastya, or the Mossad team that had died because he entered their life. And then, there were the seven civilians who had died at the café because they found themselves in the crossfire of a covert, unacknowledged, undeclared war. DiNozzo had nothing against the local Muscovites, but if he ever had to set foot in Russia again, it would be too soon.

Ziva seemed unaffected by their return to the capital of the Russian Federation, even though one of her oldest friends had died here, but Tony wasn't particularly surprised about that. She'd lost friends and co-workers across four continents, maybe five, and had long ago learned how to compartmentalize her feelings about their deaths. If Tony hadn't learned to do much the same thing – his mask was one of irreverence and humor as opposed to her cold-hearted bitch one – he might have mentioned how unhealthy it had to be for her to keep everything inside like she did. Eventually, it would come spilling out at exactly the wrong moment and where would she be then? Rushing off to Mexico to drink beer and build boats, perhaps? Or even better, accepting a promotion she didn't really want and getting sucked up into the world of international arms smugglers by a director that appeared increasingly obsessed with making her mark on the world?

_Hypocrisy, _he mused with a bitter smile, _thy name is Tony DiNozzo._

The cab ride to the Marriott Royal Aurora Hotel was made in complete silence, and Tony felt another headache coming on. Ever since they had departed D.C., Ziva had been stiffly professional, acting more like a bodyguard than a lover or even a partner. They still had sex fairly regularly – as a matter of fact, she initiated their encounters more often than not – but outside of them sharing a bed (or shower, or pool, or … heh … Gibbs' basement), she was like an emotionless robot. Now that he thought about it, her shift in personality had started when Gibbs and Rivkin had taken her aside a couple of days after the impromptu pizza party. He wondered what they said to her and how he could get _his _Ziva back. _His _Ziva was just more fun to be around.

"We are here," the subject of his thoughts announced, her sharp voice tearing him out of speculating over what the two men might have told her. He winced when he looked upon the hotel for the first time. The damned thing was like a Russian castle! How the hell was he going to be able to go back to his crappy apartment – in D.C. _or _Rota – after living a life like this? He shook his head before climbing out of the cab and offering Ziva a hand.

The main lobby was even more extravagant, with glistening white support columns holding up a beautiful colored glass ceiling. There didn't look to be any spot on the floor that didn't sparkle and Tony suspected the hotel's monthly cleaning budget was more than he made in a year. Still, Tomás D'Agostino couldn't – _wouldn't _– be that impressed by this place, so DiNozzo yawned and thanked God he was wearing dark sunglasses.

By the time they checked into their ridiculously overpriced and unnecessarily opulent suite, Tony was back to watching his surroundings like a hawk. Try as he might, he couldn't shake the unease creeping up his back or the worry that he was overreacting. What he wouldn't give for a simple drug deal gone wrong to investigate, or the dead petty officer of the week. And, as soon as the thought flashed through his brain, he felt a rush of self-loathing that he pushed down and tried to ignore.

He shoved a fistful of local currency into the bellhop – too much, if the way the kid's eyes lit up was any indication – and pushed the door shut, fighting down a wave of déjà vu as he turned to watch Ziva wander through the suite. For a moment, he wondered if she would be willing to do a little roleplaying – Jean Paul and Sophie Ranier never actually had their last night, what with he and Ziva barely knowing or even tolerating one another back then – but the moment passed as he recalled why they were here.

Since he'd first floated it back in Gibb's dining room just over two weeks ago, the plan had undergone some minor but ultimately necessary changes, mostly at the behest of Deputy Director Vance (who actually seemed to share all of Tony's concerns about this entire op.) For starters, they had stored McGee's heavily modified fake in a Swiss bank vault that was under the careful observation of a group of Mossad ninjas that both Ziva and Michael considered trustworthy. Once they made contact with Smidt and gave her the appropriate information, Tony and Ziva's part in this entire operation was complete. Tomás D'Agostino and his wife, Elisheva Stavi, would perish in a tragic plane crash 'arranged' by Mossad that would be perceived as the Israeli intelligence agency fulfilling their sanction on Lisa, and they could both go back to their normal lives.

Of course, that meant them going their separate ways – him to Rota, her back to D.C. or maybe Tel Aviv – and Tony didn't want to think about not going to bed at night next to her and waking up with her draped over him like a blanket.

"You appear stressed," Ziva said as she completed her circuit of the suite. She paused in front of a floral arrangement and gestured toward it with two fingers. Tony nodded in comprehension.

"I think I hate Russia," DiNozzo said honestly. He walked directly toward the mini-bar and began picking through the selection they had. It was impressive and he made a mental note for a few of the bottles to accidentally fall into his luggage when they left.

"It is not my favorite country in the world," Ziva replied. She gave the framed artwork on the wall a look before glancing back toward Tony and rolling her eyes. Smirking, he held up a bottle of particularly expensive vodka, but she shook her head.

"Well, after this deal is done," he said, "we can buy our own country. Someplace in the tropics…"

"That sounds…" Ziva began to say.

But the sudden explosion of the door inward interrupted her.

Windows shattered at almost the same time as dark-clad figures rappelled in, weapons already at the ready. Ziva was reacting even before Tony's brain registered the danger. She leaped toward the nearest of the men entering through the window, twisting underneath his arm and kneeing him _hard _in the groin while grabbing his weapon and pointing it in the direction of the front door. Gunfire erupted around them, ripping into the walls and furniture with an explosion of plaster and upholstery, and the team firing bounded through the shattered hole that had once been a door.

Without giving thought to what he was doing, Tony grabbed two of the heavier bottles from the mini-bar and threw them with as much force as he could manage. His aim was true – both bottles smashed into the faces of the front two members of the breaching team with loud _thunks_. Unlike what happened in Hollywood movies, the bottles didn't shatter on impact, though both of his targets staggered backward under the unexpected – and _painful _– assault, slowing the assault for brief seconds.

And seconds was all Ziva needed.

She kicked at the knee of the man she was behind, the blow crunching something vital for balance, and ripped the assault rifle from his fingers before throwing herself in a headlong dive away from him just as the other rappeller opened fire. Bullets tore into the already wounded man, but the shooter ignored him as he walked his fire across the room in an attempt to hit Ziva while she rolled, jumped and sprinted. In his apparent panic or haste to drop her, he emptied his entire thirty round magazine, but hit nothing more vital than the entertainment center, causing it to explode in a shower of pyrotechnics. As he scrambled to reload, Ziva popped up from behind the ravaged couch, firing a single shot that punched through his plastic visor and blew his brains out the back of his head.

By then, the men at the front door had recovered and swung their weapons in her direction, spraying wildly with their heavy assault rifles. The rounds chopped up her ineffective cover – the already ruined couch – and she gave Tony a quick, frightened look. From where he crouched behind the bar, DiNozzo finished what he'd been feverishly working on, flipped his lighter out, and ignited the alcohol-soaked tie crammed into the bottle of Stolichnaya vodka. He popped up and threw the Molotov cocktail without hesitation.

The resulting chaos was even better than he could have hoped for.

Men shrieked in surprise and pain when the burning alcohol exploded around them, and Ziva took advantage of the distraction Tony's improvised explosive had given her. She sprang to her feet and opened fire, the Russian assault rifle erupting with staccato barks. Heavy 7.62mm rounds punched through the plastic visors covering the faces of the breaching team, inflicting crippling or lethal injuries, and Ziva advanced toward the group, firing the rifle in short, controlled bursts.

She offered no mercy.

Tony slid over the bar and darted across the room to where the second dead man had fallen. He snatched up the rifle – it was an old, but very well-maintained AKM – and slammed the replacement magazine into it that the man had already pulled free from his tactical vest. His heart thumping madly, DiNozzo pulled back on the charging handle, chambering a round, and brought the AKM up just in time to catch a new rappeller by surprise. Underneath the plastic visor, the man's eyes widened.

And Tony pulled the trigger.

The assault rifle kicked harder than DiNozzo expected it to, but at nearly point-blank range, he didn't have to worry too much about aiming. Rounds hammered into the man's vest, and even if they didn't penetrate, their kinetic energy knocked him back through the window he'd just entered. He fell with a shriek, but Tony ignored it, pushed it aside, as he spun in place to shift his aim to the other window and another man appearing through. DiNozzo squeezed the trigger, managing to brace himself for the recoil this time, and his target toppled with a loud cry, bright arterial blood gushing out from the deadly wounds.

Glancing back toward the front door, Tony's eyes widened at the sight of Ziva charging toward him, blood dripping from a wide gash along her left arm. At her back, braced in the doorway behind the fallen bodies, another assault team was bounding toward the room. DiNozzo didn't even hesitate as he pointed the barrel of his AKM in their direction and unleashed a storm of fire.

Two of the men fell at once, screaming in agony as bullets riddled their bodies, and the rest of the team ducked out of the way in a mad scramble for cover. Ziva kept moving, pausing only momentarily at the window to glance first up and then down, before she leaped for the rappelling line and vanished from sight. Tony growled a curse as he backed toward the window, still firing at anyone stupid enough to poke their head out. With a loud click, the AKM ran dry and DiNozzo instantly tossed it aside. He tore his jacket off and wrapped it around his hands before leaping for the line.

He hit the ground seconds later, grimacing at the friction burns that covered his hands, and found Ziva waiting. She had recovered the AKM from the man Tony had shot earlier, and her hands looked even worse than DiNozzo's.

"Move!" she hissed before sprinting away from the building. Tony followed her while trying to fumble for his burn phone so he could warn Michael.

He'd barely taken a half dozen steps when pain exploded across his back and sent him sprawling to the ground.

Ziva reacted instantly, spinning and opening up with the AKM. Someone shrieked but a second _boom _– it was a shotgun, Tony realized through the haze of agony – sounded and Ziva staggered backward, dropping the assault rifle as she tried to stay on her feet. She reached for the rifle.

"If you value your life," a heavily accented voice called out, "I vould suggest you stand down." The sound of boots on concrete and dozens of assault rifles being prepared for action echoed around them and Tony tried to fight through the pain. Her eyes watering with pain, Ziva looked at him, clearly weighing the risks of acting, and DiNozzo was suddenly reminded of her remarks about never being taken alive. His breath caught – he didn't want to watch her die – as her face hardened.

The shotgun boomed again.

And Ziva fell.

Someone was screaming and Tony realized it was him. His back was on fire, but he pushed through the agony and crawled toward her. She was still breathing and the relief that swept through him then was so intense it nearly caused him to pass out. His eyes focused on something beside her.

A beanbag round. Oh, God, they had been waiting for them.

And a second later, Viggo Drantyev stepped into view, a shotgun in hand.

"Hello, Agent DiNozzo," the Russian said with a sinister smile before bringing the butt of the weapon down on Tony's face.

And blessed darkness took everything away.

* * *

**A/N #2:** Yeah, I know I've probably overused the guys rappelling through the window, but I just like the image so much that I keep returning to it. ;-)

And now, things get ... interesting...


	76. The Widening Gyre, 26: Michael

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: **Rated **M **for language, sexual situations, violence.

* * *

**Michael**

They were late.

From his hotel room looking into the planned meeting spot in Gorky Park, Michael fought to urge to fidget and glance once again at his watch. Tony and Ziva were already more than ten minutes behind schedule and, although they had agreed on complete radio silence, he was seriously considering using his phone to call them. Even if they had argued over something – which, knowing them, was entirely possible – one of their make-up sessions would never last this long and Rivkin simply could not see them losing track of the time. Not now, when this mission was just about to end and they could go back to their normal lives.

He still didn't quite understand why DiNozzo had selected this location as the meeting spot – Gorky Park was an amusement park for children and Michael was not entirely comfortable with conducting their business in such a location, no matter that it would likely limit potential hostilities as only sociopaths and absolute monsters willingly put children in danger. With the sheer number of local police officers patrolling the area, a firefight of any sort would rapidly lead to the large-scale mobilization of the constabulary.

Of course, knowing Tony, he'd probably chosen the place because he had seen it in a movie once.

What was making this entire wait worse for Michael was the dull ache still beating time with his pulse. The ribs fractured during his Canadian misadventure were mostly healed, but they still hurt almost as much as his wounded pride. He had gotten sloppy, had allowed Harari to sneak up behind him and use a taser to incapacitate him without even realizing that he was walking into a trap. And, if Agent McGee hadn't killed that little bastard, then Michael certainly would have, not just for betraying them but for the brutal beating dished out to Rivkin while he was unconscious. He doubted that Harari had been the brains behind the plan – jumping him, beating him nearly to death and then dumping his body in the middle of nowhere without a wallet or any other valuables as if he'd been jumped by thieves was simply too subtle a means of disposal for a techie like Moshe; he would want to do something outlandish, something that they did on the procedural crime dramas in the States that would prove how much smarter he was than the authorities – and Michael hadn't yet completely removed Director David from the list of suspects behind the attempt to grab Domino, no matter that both Ziva and Leon Vance insisted he'd been surprised.

And God help Trent Kort if Rivkin ever managed to corner that bastard.

Frustration rolled over him and Michael abandoned his attempts to remain still. He shifted slightly so he could get a look at his watch.

And in doing so, caught sight of a pair of men setting up a sniper's blind atop the Ioanna Voina church.

He gave the surrounding area a quick scan for any other abnormal movement before shifting the aim of his rifle toward the would-be snipers. It took him only seconds to realize that the two men were clearly not planning on watching the park at all, but appeared to be orienting their blind in the direction of the Hotel Varshava that Michael was concealed within. He bit back a soft curse and inched back from his window, fighting the swell of panic thundering through him. If these men knew where he was, that meant they knew where Tony and Ziva were.

And quite suddenly, the reason for their lateness was clear.

Anger washed away the panic, nearly wiping away common sense and causing him to do something he would regret – it would take only seconds to aim, fire, and fire again – but Michael clung to his last shreds of self-control. Moving slowly so as to avoid attracting attention, he pulled the rifle free of the stand he'd discreetly bolted to floor the previous night. Once it was loose, he tossed it onto the bed and scrambled toward the large duffel bag resting on the dresser. Within moments, he had stripped off his shirt, donned the second-chance bulletproof vest, and pulled another shirt on. The two Jericho 941s he pulled from the bag were his favored weapons and, after chambering a round in both, he secured them in separate under-arm holsters and pulled on a jacket. He left the submachine gun in the bag, but pulled out a block of C4 and a cell phone. Blowing out a breath, he dialed a number.

_"Indigo," _he said into the cell the moment the call was picked up. There was no response – he didn't expect one – and the line went dead immediately. Michael smiled darkly; he had warned Ari that this op was blown and the younger officer was even now preparing to run. They would meet at the tertiary rendezvous point and figure out their next step.

Providing, of course, they both survived what was heading their way.

When the breaching team entered his room nearly five minutes later, Michael was ready for them. The door slammed open as they blew apart the lock – standard room-clearing tactics – and three men wearing body armor stormed in, weapons at the ready. So intent were they on making a grand entrance that they completely failed to detect the trip wire stretched out just beyond the arc of the door. The lead breacher hit the line just as a fourth man entered through the window in a shower of glass.

None of them survived the explosion that rocked the hotel and destroyed the room.

Scrambling out of the bathtub where he had been huddled up in a ball, Michael heaved a soft sigh of relief that his calculations regarding the explosive had been correct as he pulled the plugs out of his ears and stuffed them into a pocket. Even a shaped charge was potentially dangerous, and he'd been worried that too much C4 had been used. Grabbing his duffel bag, he leaped over the gaping hole in the floor and into the corridor outside his room. There was another team in the hallway, though they were all on the floor and trying to recover from the unexpected blast that had ripped their compatriots apart and sent shockwaves through the corridor. Rivkin gave them a quick glance – and a kick to the face in the case of a man who was regaining his senses more quickly than any of the others – noting as he did that there were no indications that these men had any ties to law enforcement. There weren't any badges displayed or the Cyrillic equivalent of SWAT plastered atop their uniforms as he would find in America. He didn't bother checking for identification; if these men had been sent here by Smidt's people, they would know better. Instead, he started running through the hallway, joining the panicking civilians fleeing from their rooms.

No one seemed to notice that he was wearing a bathrobe over his clothes.

Michael let the terrified mass of people trying to escape the building carry him out of the hotel and he ducked down the stairs leading to the nearby subway station. In the chaos, no one gave him a second look – he was just one more person trying to get away from what could be a potential terrorist attack – and he stripped off his bathrobe while descending the stairs. A couple of people gave him second glances when he tossed it into a trash can, but they were either too busy trying to get away from the explosion or too curious as to what was going on at the street level to really care.

There was a train about to leave when he reached the underground terminal, and Michael boarded it without even bothering to see where it was headed. After finding a seat that allowed him to keep his back to the wall and an eye on the window, Rivkin curled the fingers of his right hand around one of the holstered Jerichos and waited.

He didn't have to wait long.

A trio of thickset men charged down the stairs and into the subway terminal, quickly spreading out in an obvious attempt to cover as much ground as possible. Michael grimaced, tightening his hold on his pistol. He glanced around the train car, wincing at the number of innocents present. A firefight here would not end well.

With a jolt, the train began moving and Rivkin hunched down in his seat to avoid notice by three men desperately trying to peer into the departing subway cars. He only relaxed when the terminal fell away, but even then, knew that only dead men stopped watching their surroundings in a situation like this. Dying here did not fit his plan.

But then, Dana dying in this damned city had not fit it either.

No one was waiting for him when the subway reached the next terminal, and Michael let the hurried mass of Muscovites carry him to the streets above. He boarded a trolley train heading south and realized as they neared the second stop that the Israeli Embassy was just beyond it. Without giving it much thought, he jumped off the trolley and walked the rest of the way.

"I need a car," he said to the Mossad staff officer waiting once he was allowed entrance, "and a clean phone."

He was pulling out of the Embassy within minutes, the duffel bag stored in the back seat along with an equally large bag that contained equipment he feared he might need in the immediate future. The panic that he'd managed to suppress over Tony and Ziva resurfaced abruptly, causing him to grip the steering wheel tighter than necessary. He blew out a deep breath and forced himself to focus on the street.

Police vans were surrounding the Marriott Royal Aurora Hotel when he arrived, so Michael continued past it without stopping, his stomach sinking at the apparent confirmation of his worst fears. He parked the car several blocks away and climbed out, pausing only long enough to extract some documents from his duffel.

"Khalid el-Nawawy," he identified himself to the first police that he encountered, flashing his false press credentials as he spoke, "Al Jazeera." The long-suffering expression that crossed the policeman's face nearly caused Michael to smile.

_"Press is that way,"_ the law enforcement officer announced, pointing toward a cluster of men and women surrounding a harried-looking man in his late fifties. Rivkin nodded his thanks and hurried to join them.

_"As of this time,"_ the official was saying as Michael approached, _"we have no further comment."_

_"Eyewitnesses claim that two suspects were taken into custody,"_ an attractive-looking woman called out. _"Can you confirm that?"_

_"No,"_ the man said, but Rivkin could see wariness in his eyes. _"We are still investigating-"_

_"What about reports that the police did not arrive until _after_ the shooting ended?"_ another reporter demanded. This one was rail thin, with a prominent nose and dangerously sharp eyes.

_"No comment,"_ the official replied before turning away. He ignored the rest of the shouted questions, though Michael listened to them intently before silently retracing his steps to the parked car. Everything he had just learned pointed to one, immutable truth.

Smidt's organization had Tony and Ziva.

He took a different route back to the Israeli Embassy, his vision red with fury. The Mossad control officer – Chaim Ben-Meir – was waiting for him, a concerned expression on his face.

"Officer Livni arrived shortly after you departed," he related immediately. Although he technically outranked Michael, Ben-Meir clearly recognized the danger in upsetting someone trained as _Kidon._ "He is in my office," the control officer said before leading the way.

Ari was seated behind Ben-Meir's desk, his eyes locked on the computer screen directly in front of him, and at a glance, Michael could see that the younger man had not escaped his own sniper perch entirely uninjured. Livni's clothes were torn and burned – likely from an explosion of some sort – and his face was covered with scratches and dried blood. His left arm was cradled in his lap, a crimson-stained bandage wrapped around it. Upon Rivkin's entrance, Ari glanced up and tried to stand.

"Stay," Michael ordered as he approached. Livni gratefully collapsed back into the chair.

"Officer David?" he asked with worry in his voice. "Agent DiNozzo?" Rivkin frowned.

"I visited their hotel," Michael said darkly, "and they were not there."

"Could they have gone into hiding?" Ben-Meir asked and Rivkin gave him a sidelong look. "Director David read me into this operation prior to your arrival."

"It is possible," Rivkin admitted.

"But unlikely," Livni interjected. "One of the men who came after me – I recognized him from Frankfurt." At Michael's look, he continued. "When I shot Smidt's lover," he said. "The man I killed today was her other guard." Rivkin closed his eyes for a hearbeat. He did not want to think about Tony or Ziva in the clutches of these people.

"What do we do now?" Ben-Meir asked.

"We find them," Michael said coldly as he opened his eyes, "and get them back."

"And this woman will know where we should look," Livni added in a grim voice for someone so young as he leaned back from the computer. There, on the monitor, the image of Regine Smidt looked back at him. "She departed Moscow for Switzerland on a private jet ten minutes ago," Ari said. "There's no way that was a coincidence."

Michael smiled. It was a terrible sight.

* * *

**A/N #2:** That'll be the last time I use the 'flying monkey men' through the window. Promise. :P


	77. The Widening Gyre, 27: Ziva

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: **Rated **M **for language, sexual situations, violence.

The situations in this chapter are intended for **Mature audiences only **and they are not pleasant ones. I **_seriously _**considered excising this entire chapter because it was **_extraordinarily_ **difficult for me to write and is likely difficult to read, but ultimately decided to keep it in the story because not only is it necessary for future plot developments, but because I've also not shied away from touching on the more realistic effects of this sort of life. You have been warned and I will not blame anyone for deciding to skip this chapter entirely.

* * *

**Ziva**

Ziva woke with a groan.

She swam up toward consciousness, fighting the urge to simply give up and sink into the bleak nothingness. No part of her body had escaped abuse, though Ziva could no longer differentiate between agonies. Hours ago – or perhaps days, she wasn't sure which anymore – she had tried to take stock of her injuries, but had mercifully passed out when her tormentors resumed their questioning. She had not answered them, that much she knew, and her refusal to even respond had led to … alternate forms of persuasion.

And now, memories came only in disjointed flashes.

_Flash. _The feel of concrete against her face and the sound of Tony screaming her name. Agony in her stomach that drowned out the friction burns on her hands.

_Flash. _The distinctive hum of an airplane engine vibrating through the floor. She did not know where she was going, or when the memory took place. It could have been her most recent plane trip … or her very first.

_Flash. _Men who stunk of tobacco and vodka pawing at her, touching her, using her, laughing at her, beating her. She hated them all. Wanted to kill them. _Would _kill them. _All _of them.

_Flash. _Tony's face as she watched him sleep. He never knew how often she did that, how she had first done so the night that they had posed as the married assassins (though it was mostly in annoyance then because of how loudly he snored), how she did it every night they were together. Now, she feared he would never know, that she would never have the chance to tell him, that she would never again see him.

_Flash._ Pain. Oh, so much pain. In her legs, her torso, her groin, her arms, her hands, her face. They were careful in their application of brutality, careful that she did not die, careful that she was conscious for the worst of it. And she hated that a deeply buried part of her soul thought she deserved it all for all the pain she had caused to others over the years, all the misery and the death meted out by her hand.

_Flash. _The smell of Ari's blood as it pooled around his body. The feel of the tears trickling down her face as her brother's shocked eyes stared at her, already glazing over with death. The taste of gunpowder filling the basement room and the cool concrete underneath her legs. Gibbs' reassuring and paternal hand upon her shoulder as he gave her the privacy to grieve for the loss of the man her brother had once been. Her father had ordered her to be prepared to kill Ari if necessary, but his anger at the loss of his son had terrified her and made her lie to him.

_Flash. _The cold eyes of Viggo Drantyev – or Ivan Volkov, or Nikolai Chebrikov, or whatever his name actually was – looming over her, demanding answers but never actually touching her. That he left for other men, men who stunk of tobacco and vodka, men who were already dead though they did not yet know it.

Ziva slowly clawed her way out of the darkness, opening her eyes to find herself in a darkness of a different sort. She was on her back, atop an uncomfortable cot, and the cold air swirling around her body let her instantly know that she was nude. Both of her hands were handcuffed to the metal frame of the cot and she grimaced when she tried to move; agony lanced through her left arm and she could tell that it was broken. Her legs also were secured in place and she tried not to think about what the spread-eagle position was intended to convey. Breathing was just as difficult, which meant cracked ribs at the very least, as well as a broken nose. She tried to avoid swallowing as well – her jaw was swollen to at least three times normal size (it too was likely fractured) and her throat felt as though it were coated in glass.

A steady _drip drip drip _echoed in the near distance, and Ziva focused on the sound to help center her consciousness. The … cell that she had apparently been dumped into was dark and wet, with a thick, earthy smell that made her suspect she was somewhere deep underground. There was very little illumination in the cell, most of it coming from the cracks around the heavy door set in the far wall. A tiny red light drew her attention to where a video camera watched her from the wall.

She looked away.

"Good afternoon, Mister DiNozzo," the heavily accented voice of Drantyev suddenly echoed from hidden speakers, causing Ziva to flinch and cast a quick, terrified look around the room. She desperately did not want to see Tony here, did not want _him _to see _her _like this.

"I'd like to speak to your manager." Tony's reply was slurred and pained, as if he was speaking through a swollen jaw, but he remained defiant. "The service here sucks."

"Humor as a defense mechanism," Drantyev said in an amused tone. "It never lasts, Mister DiNozzo." The sound of violence – something solid striking meat, a groan of pain – caused Ziva to crane her head up and examine the handcuffs holding her in place. Her stomach rolled at the sight of her mangled right hand, but she pushed it aside as she tried to wriggle the limb free. "You have lasted longer than any of us expected, Agent DiNozzo," Drantyev continued. Once more, the sounds of someone receiving a beating echoed through the speakers and Ziva wanted to howl when she heard Tony's cries. She would kill these people. All of them. Slowly.

"Thas how I roll," Tony mumbled.

"I think you expect a rescue," Drantyev declared. "From Officer Rivkin, perhaps? Or your employers with NCIS?" The unseen Russian chuckled ominously. "Or is it that you think your partner, Ziva David, will sweep in to save you?"

"Go fuck yourself," Tony hissed before a meaty _thunk _caused him to cry out.

"There will be no rescue, Agent DiNozzo." Drantyev was cold and remorseless as he spoke. "Not from Mossad, not from NCIS, not from anyone. You are completely alone and will die that way unless you give me what I want."

"Do you expect me to talk?" Tony asked in the faux Scottish accent Ziva recognized as his imitation of Sean Connery. She wanted to laugh out loud at his refusal to be cowed. She wanted to cry over it. Far better than anyone else, she knew it would not, could not last.

"Have you ever visited Iraq?" Drantyev asked in response. "I spent some time there before your American invasion and Mister Hussein's sons had a _remarkably _effective tool for interrogation." He paused for dramatic effect. "Allow me to show you _how_ effective."

"Ziva…" Tony's horrified gasp caused her to close her eyes and turn her head away from the camera in comprehension of the Russian man's horribly effective tactic. This would break Tony more easily than any physical coercion. A loud buzz sounded in her cell and the door swung open, revealing a broad man whose muscle was turning to fat. He entered the room and began stripping off his pants.

"As you can tell," Drantyev said conversationally, "Officer David has been … entertaining some of my men." Tony became screaming incoherently, but the audio abruptly ended as the man approached the cot.

It was mercifully brief, but Ziva felt another part of herself wither and die as the man did his part. She tried to fight back, but jarred her fractured arm in the attempt and white hot pain, so intense it caused her to pass out for a few seconds, lanced through the broken limb. The rapist said nothing as he departed, but she memorized his face and hoped they would meet again on a more even footing. The moment he pulled the door shut behind him, the hidden speakers crackled to life once more, and she could hear someone weeping. She recognized who it was immediately and tried to speak, tried to reassure him and urge him to continue to resist. Agony shot through her face when she worked her jaw, confirming her worst fears that it was broken.

"He was not the first, Agent DiNozzo," Drantyev's voice said over the sound of Tony's soft whimpers, "nor will he be the last if you do not cooperate with me. I will have every man in this facility line up outside her door and take turns until she breaks or dies."

"Please … no …"

"Or perhaps I will have _you _raped next," Drantyev said. _"Where _is Domino?" The Russian's voice was hard and unyielding as he spoke.

"The CIA has it," Tony whispered. "An agent named Kort snatched it from us in Canada. Please … let her go."

"I think not," Drantyev said. "She is far too dangerous to let live. My men had orders to kill her in Moscow and we saw how _that _turned out."

"Please … I'll do whatever you want … just don't …"

"You will cooperate, Agent DiNozzo, or she will suffer. Do you understand?" The reply was instantaneous.

"Yes."

Ziva closed her eyes and looked away from the camera. The questions continued to tumble from Drantyev's mouth and Tony answered each of them without hesitation, begging and pleading with them to let her go each time he spoke. She could hear it in his voice, recognized the oh so familiar sounds from past experience when _she _was in Drantyev's place.

They had broken Tony.

And it was all her fault. She had failed him, exactly as Gibbs and Michael had feared. The tears that welled within her eyes did not fall as she rapidly blinked them away. She would not let these bastards see her weep. Instead, Ziva returned her attention to the dislocated fingers of her right hand and resumed trying to slip free. Tony still needed her.

And she would not let him down again.

* * *

**A/N #2:** As I stated above, this was _very _difficult for me to write. I'm a caveman who falls firmly in the "All Rapists Must Die" camp, and I _really _tried to figure out a way to avoid this scene because it hews too close to what I personally suspect Ziva went through in between "Aliyah" and "Truth and Consequences." For a while, I even considered not coming back to Tony or Ziva until one of the other Named Characters located them, thus having their respective abuses take place off-screen. Unfortunately, all of my attempts to avoid touching on what happens to Ziva and later, what happens to Tony, fell flat and actually felt like I was pussy-footing around real abuse (ala the canon show, which has Ziva in _unrealistically _good physical and mental shape after being in the hands of Jihadist Muslims for 3 months), which is why I ultimately changed the rating to **M for Mature **and pushed on.

It is for this chapter alone that I decided that the rating needed to be changed. And this chapter _still _leaves a foul taste in my mouth. Fortunately, as the Writer, I can have Very Bad Things happens to the pieces of excrement responsible...


	78. The Widening Gyre, 28: Tim

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: **Rated **M **for language, sexual situations, violence, and the occasional flying monkey man.

* * *

**Tim**

Autopsy was freezing.

Tim shivered as he stood in front of the closed drawer that had, until recently, contained the corpse of Moshe Harari. To his continued surprise, McGee realized that he had barely given any thought to the rogue Mossad officer in the ten days since Alexandria, and hadn't even bothered to learn the names of the other two men he'd killed. It actually worried him more than he wanted to admit, this lack of reaction to three deaths at his hand. Shouldn't he feel _something_? Some hint of guilt or remorse or even pride? Anything but the numb acceptance that he had once again taken a life. Three lives, if he was going to be honest.

He lost track of how long he stood there, staring, but suddenly felt someone watching him and tore his eyes away from the drawer. Doctor Mallard was standing silently next to the small mirrored door leading to the supply closet, an understanding look in his eyes, and Tim gave him a sheepish look before shuffling awkwardly.

"I didn't mean to bother you, Ducky," McGee said, his attention once more drifting to the closed drawer.

"You didn't, my dear boy," the doctor replied as he strode across autopsy to stand alongside him. "My door is always open to you." Mallard glanced quickly between the closed drawer and Tim. "You do know we sent him on to Tel Aviv this morning, don't you?" McGee nodded. Thanks to his direct involvement in the situation, he'd had a front row seat to the daily MTAC disputes between Deputy Director Vance and Director David of Mossad over the fates of the dead Israelis. Tim's appreciation of Vance had skyrocketed when he saw how the deputy director held his ground and made no attempt to hide the fact that he wanted to see heads roll in Tel Aviv for the unsanctioned mission that had put two NCIS employees and an American citizen in mortal danger. It hadn't seemed to matter to Vance how badly both Director Shepard and the whole of Mossad wanted the situation to just disappear, especially with the rumors of the purge Ziva's father was conducting within the ranks of his organization. In the end, Director David had acceded to penning an official commendation that would be attached to both Abby and Tim's service files with NCIS (which looked _great _for future employment prospects or promotions down the road), as well as issuing a formal apology to all three of those abducted. The rest of Sarah's education would be paid for by the state of Israel as recompense for the emotional trauma she'd suffered, and already, she had begun making plans to pursue a Masters with an eye toward going after a doctorate while she was at it. All in all, everyone seemed to get what they wanted and the always lazy national media swallowed the 'rogue terrorist cell taken down by heroic federal agents' story with an ease that was almost frightening.

But ten men were still dead.

"Have you ever killed anyone, Ducky?" The question tumbled from Tim's lips before he even realized that he was speaking. "Face to face, I mean."

"I'm afraid I have," Mallard replied. He sighed heavily. "It was during the Falklands Conflict back in '82." The doctor shook his head sadly. "I was mistaken for an agent of MI6 who was causing a great deal of trouble in the region and had to defend myself from a particularly aggressive Argentinean soldier with only a shovel at my disposal." Ducky was silent for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was thick with emotion. "One never forgets such a terrible thing and if you are feeling guilty, my boy, it only makes you human."

"And if I'm not feeling a thing?" McGee asked with a grimace. Tim shifted self-consciously under the doctor's appraising look. "When I think about those men," he said softly, "I don't feel _anything._"

"That's not altogether surprising, I think," Ducky replied. "You were defending the two women you care for the most in this world and those men threatened them." The doctor offered him a sad smile. "Human beings are hardwired to act in certain ways, Timothy, and I daresay that you acted exactly as nature dictated. We humans are a deadly lot when it comes to protecting our families." When McGee frowned in disbelief, Ducky continued. "May I ask you a question?" Tim nodded. "If you were placed in a hypothetical situation in which the only way you could save Abigail or Sarah was to die, would you walk willingly to your death?"

"Yes." Tim blinked in surprise at how easily the answer came, but the doctor nodded as if he expected it.

"There is an old saying you might consider," he said. "Anything worth dying for is worth killing for." Ducky patted Tim on his good shoulder. "You did nothing wrong, my boy. No man could have done better."

"Listen to him, McGee," Gibbs said as he swept into autopsy. Tim jumped in surprise.

"Boss!" he exclaimed sharply before drawing in a worried breath. "Any word?" he asked hesitantly, not sure how Gibbs would react to the question. From the moment they were informed that Tony and Ziva had been captured, the silver-haired ex-Marine had been a walking powder keg, threatening to explode at a moment's notice.

"No," Gibbs said softly. The expression on his face suddenly reminded Tim of how the older man had looked right after Kate died and McGee swallowed the lump that had abruptly lodged itself in his throat. "I need you with Abby," Gibbs said a moment later. "Rivkin's people are sending us all of the data the Moscow team acquired and I want the two of you to double and triple-check _everything._"

"What are we looking for, Boss?" Tim asked. He recoiled from the flare of anguished fury he saw reflected in the older man's eyes.

"If I knew that, McGee," Gibbs hissed, "then we wouldn't need you to look, would we?" The glare on the ex-Marine's face faltered and faded away as he looked away. "Find us a lead, Tim," he said. "Something we can use."

"On it, Boss," McGee said before heading for the exit. Silently, he made a promise to himself: he would find something that would point them to Tony and Ziva or he would kill himself trying.

"We need to talk, Duck," Gibbs said as McGee headed toward the elevator. Tim glanced back at the two men, but the closing autopsy door cut off whatever it was that they were discussing.

When he arrived at Abby's lab, Tim found her using the flat screen monitor on the far wall as a miniature MTAC and his breath caught at the numerous burns and scratches decorating Officer Livni's face. The Mossad officer's expression was grimmer than McGee had ever seen him, and the darkness in the man's eyes made him look more than a little like the last man named Ari they had interacted with.

"I do not know what to tell you, Abby," Livni was saying as Tim entered. "Michael has not yet reported in-"

"But they're going to be okay, right?" The fear in her voice made Abby sound ten or fifteen years younger than she actually was and Livni's visible flinch at her question only made it worse. "Don't you dare lie to me," Abby ordered, her eyes flashing with the exact same anguished terror that had been in Gibbs' eyes.

"They have been missing for four days, Miss Scuito," Livni said flatly. "Mossad can break nearly any man in half that time." Abby gasped and turned away from the monitor.

"We'll let you know if we find anything," Tim said as he stepped into the camera's field of view. Livni nodded.

"I shall do the same," he remarked before terminating the transmission. McGee blew out a breath and turned toward Abby.

"Hey," he said softly, dropping his good hand onto her shoulder. She spun in place and wrapped her arms around him.

"It's not fair, Timmy," Abby moaned, her voice on the verge of cracking. She sniffed loudly.

"I know, Abs," McGee replied. He patted her on the back, wishing he had the words to comfort her even as the logical part of his brain acknowledged how accurate … Ari's words were. Ziva had once told him that _everyone_ breaks eventually, and one of the first things that Tim had noticed when they were all together most recently was how … brittle Tony seemed. Oh, the smiles and jokes and movie references were still there, but they seemed forced, as if he had forgotten how to actually _be _Tony DiNozzo.

"Let's take a look at what Livni sent us," Tim said as he began walking Abby back toward her computer. She looked up at him and he forced a grin that he did not truly feel onto his face at how her mascara had run. "After you fix your face," he said. "You look like a raccoon."

"Tim!" Abby exclaimed, clearly unsure whether to be amused or angry. She smacked him on the arm – his good one fortunately – and then her eyes widened suddenly. "Oh, God," she breathed, "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"Bad arm, Abs." McGee wiggled the fingers of his right hand from where the limb was still immobilized against his chest. "Good arm," he said before giving her a light Gibbs slap with his left hand. The smile she shot him lit up her entire face and made him suddenly comprehend why Tony had always played the fool in moments of crisis. _But who makes _him _smile when things have gone to hell? _Tim wondered sadly.

"Do that again, buster," Abby began.

"And you'll kill me without leaving any forensics evidence?" Tim finished. She pouted and he laughed. "Go fix your face, Raccoon Girl," he ordered in a bad French accent, "or I will mock you a second time."

The moment Abby ducked out of the lab to deal with her running make-up, McGee slumped against the wall and inhaled deeply as he tried to calm himself. As much as he wanted to collapse in a corner, too many people were relying on him right now to give in to the urge. He needed to be the strong one right now, for Abby and Tony and Ziva and even Gibbs. _I can do this, _he told himself as he pushed himself off the wall. By the time Abby returned, he was perched in front of the computer, awkwardly typing with just his left hand.

"I'll take the computer files," he said as she entered the lab, "if you check out the video they sent."

"Okay," Abby replied.

They worked in relative silence for nearly an hour, communicating only when necessary. Tim was so distracted by worry and his efforts to find something – _anything _– that could point them to Tony and Ziva that it took nearly that entire time to realize that the stereo had been turned off the entire time that he'd been there. He considered asking about the lack of music, but decided against doing so since he understood her reasoning. Right now, he didn't even want to _look _at his typewriter which was his usual way of coping with shocks like this.

The sheer amount of information that Officer Livni had sent them was staggering, ranging from bank accounts and shell companies suspected to be linked to the illegal arms shipping organization, to the rap sheets of the various personalities believed to have positions of authority inside the shadowy group. There were planes that had been involved in weapons shipments, boats and ships that had smuggled arms, buildings identified as potentially owned by the organization, trigger men who had murdered overly curious law enforcement personnel, not to mention the LEOs with suspicious ties to the before-mentioned authority figures of the organization. Tim's eyes crossed at how much legwork Tony and Michael had accomplished in the year plus since beginning this investigation, and he pinched the bridge of his nose to ward off a headache. How was he going to find anything useful in this? It was data overload…

"Do you think we'll see them again?" Abby asked abruptly. She was staring at the low-quality video of Tony and Ziva being carried into a nondescript van by hooded and masked figures in black.

"I don't know, Abby," Tim replied sadly. It was hard to stay positive when reality wanted to smack him in the face. More than anything else, he had no desire whatsoever to attend another funeral. "I don't know."

* * *

**A/N #2:** I would be a liar if I said that my ... disdain toward the entire canon Rivkin plot didn't factor into Vance's far more realistic reaction in this chapter to an unsanctioned Mossad operation against American interests on American soil. And _this _op didn't even result in the death of an American federal LEO like the canon one did!

Many thanks to those of you who supported my decision to go ahead with the previous chapter. I was worried that it was the wrong decision and am gratified that the response has been, thus far, decidedly positive.


	79. The Widening Gyre, 29: Michael

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: **Rated **M **for language, sexual situations, violence, and the occasional flying monkey man.

* * *

**Michael**

The sun had barely sunk behind the horizon when he made his move.

His arms and legs ached as he slowly pulled himself out of Lake Lugano, but Michael shoved the exhaustion aside and concentrated on the task at hand. With carefully exaggerated movements – since the human eye was invariably drawn to sudden motion and he could not risk being detected just yet – he low-crawled his way across the small beach to the treeline bordering the property where he unstrapped the waterproof backpack and set it on the ground. He took just as much time to strip off his wetsuit and, by the time it was off, his hair had dried and the sun had completely disappeared. From the bag, he extracted a bulletproof vest that he donned over the equally dark combat fatigues he was already wearing. The silenced Jericho 941 went into a holster that he secured to his legs, and the long-bladed knife he slid free of its scabbard to check its edge before clipping it to his belt. With a deep breath, he pulled a balaclava over his face before cramming the wetsuit into the backpack.

Keeping low, he crept toward the villa that was his ultimate destination. A magnificent-looking three-storey building, it had a beautiful view of the lake and Monte San Salvatore, a prominent mountain in the Lepontine Alps. The lawn surrounding the villa was perfectly maintained, with the grass so lushly green that it likely cost more to maintain than Michael's rent payment. Adding to the image of wealth was the outdoor pool, the five-car garage, and the boat house that housed an expensive-looking watercraft.

And somewhere inside was Regine Smidt.

The first two guards Michael reached were too busy flirting with one another to have noticed his approach even if he had been wearing bells. Both men were several centimeters taller than he was, were thick with muscle and armed with the usual accoutrements of their job – submachine guns, earwig and radio, flashlight – but hardly paid attention to their jobs. With the Jericho out and ready, Rivkin waited until the pair had passed his hiding place within the edge of the treeline before firing twice in rapid succession. The two men fell without a sound, but Michael fired twice more – both shots to the head, just to make sure – before continuing his slow circuit of the villa grounds.

He killed four more men – three with the knife and one with a well-placed pair of pistol shots to the skull – before heading toward the back door of the villa. The smell of cigarette smoke and a soft, raspy cough warned him well before he reached the door that a man was standing there, and Michael exchanged his pistol for the long knife. His victim never even saw him coming – the man's night vision was already ruined thanks to the match he'd used to light his cigarette and he was looking in the wrong direction when Rivkin pounced. Wrapping one hand over the surprised man's mouth, Michael thrust the knife up with as much force as he could manage. The blade easily cut through flesh and cloth, and the man twitched as it pierced his heart. For long seconds, Rivkin held onto the dying man's face to keep him from crying out and, when his victim finally went limp, he lowered the corpse into a lawn chair.

The ground floor was mostly quiet, though Michael heard the unmistakable sounds of two people engaged in sex echoing from the upper levels. Another sound – the creak of a chair – drew him through the living room toward the office where he discovered another guard riveted to the monitor in front of him. The rest of the villa's camera views had been minimized in favor of what appeared to be the master bedroom on the second floor, and Rivkin fought the urge to shake his head when he realized the guard was … entertaining himself as Smidt and her new lover engaged in surprisingly mundane-looking sex on the monitor in front of him. Michael instantly realized that he should have expected this sort of thing from previous observation of the woman; she was nothing if not an exhibitionist and probably derived more pleasure from knowing that she was being watched than from the actual act of intercourse itself.

Michael left the guard slumped over his keyboard, blood pooling under his chair, and killed the power to the security system once he was sure the rest of the ground floor was clear. By the time he had inched up to the second floor, Smidt was in the shower while her satisfied guard-slash-lover stretched out on the bed, a broad smile on his face. Rivkin waited until the man's eyes closed before gliding across the hardwood floor with as much stealth as he could manage. He raised the Jericho and kicked the edge of the bed, jolting the guard out of the light doze. The man's eyes widened, his mouth fell open…

And Michael pulled the trigger.

He was waiting patiently just out of view when Regine Smidt emerged from the bathroom. She was completely nude and her still wet skin glistened under the soft lights in the bedroom. At any other time, Rivkin might have actually taken a moment to admire her lovely body – she was a natural blonde, he noted, and in exquisite shape – but he was in a hurry and had no time to waste.

So he stepped out of the shadows and shot her in the stomach.

She crumpled to the floor with an agonized shriek, but Michael ignored the cry as he walked slowly across the floor to stand over where she had fallen. Smidt's eyes darted immediately to where the camera had to be, and Rivkin followed the line of her sight in an exaggerated manner before shaking his head and returning his attention to her.

"They are all dead," he said coldly. He pulled his balaclava off and crouched alongside her. _"All_ of them." Smidt groaned, her hands clutching the gushing stomach wound, and Michael prodded the bloody mess with the barrel of his pistol, eliciting more cries and whimpers. "That looks bad," he remarked calmly.

"What…"

"Do I want?" he finished for the gasping woman. "Information. If you provide it in a timely enough manner, I might allow you to seek medical attention." The smile he gave her had no trace of human warmth in it. "Otherwise, I will very likely allow you to bleed out in an exceedingly painful manner."

"Please," Smidt moaned. Tears fell from her eyes and Michael, who still had nightmares stemming from his own stomach wounds, knew just how much pain she was in.

And yet, he honestly did not give a damn.

"Four days ago," Michael began, "two of my associates were seized by the organization you represent." Smidt's eyes widened, despite the clear agony she was in, and Rivkin nodded. "Ah," he said, "you know who I am talking about. Good. That makes things much easier for both of us." He leaned closer to her. "Where were they taken?"

"I don't know," the woman answered through her sobs. Michael shook his head.

"That is _not _the answer I was seeking, Miss Smidt," he said. "It appears that you are not interested in medical aid after all. Pity." He made to stand.

"Please!" Smidt exclaimed. "It hurts!"

"Of course it hurts," Michael replied. "I shot you in the stomach." He glowered. _"Where _did Drantyev take them?" Once more, her eyes widened. "Yes," Rivkin said, "I know who you work for and…" – he glanced at his watch – "…you are running out of time, Miss Smidt."

"I do not know!" She stared at him with pleading eyes. "They did not tell me." Michael grunted.

"That is unfortunate," he said before pushing himself to his feet. _"Especially _for you." When she looked up at him in pained horror, he continued. "Enjoy your last few minutes on this world, Miss Smidt," he said coldly.

"Wait!" she whimpered as he turned away. "Files … on computer … might help." Her breath was coming in ragged gasps now as shock and blood loss set in, and she reached out with a single, bloody hand as if to implore him for mercy. "Don't know where … but might help …"

Michael frowned and bit his lip. It was more than he had expected, but less than he hoped for – Smidt was obviously a disposable asset for the organization Drantyev worked for. The woman knew just enough to be useful, but not enough to be dangerous.

"You helped Drantyev capture them, didn't you?" he asked calmly. The fear that flashed across the woman's face was answer enough and Rivkin glared. "Goodbye, Miss Smidt."

For the next ten minutes or so, he searched the master bedroom for anything that might be useful while ignoring the pained cries of the naked woman sprawled out on the floor in a growing pool of her own blood. Inside the wall safe (which was pitifully easy to break into), he found several hundred thousand Euros and a number of flash drives and external hard drives. He pulled an empty suitcase from the closet and dumped the money and the drives into it before ransacking the three dressers for anything of possible interest. Another flash drive went into the suitcase, along with a stack of passports rubber banded together. He also found a manila folder filled with what looked to be financial records and it too went into the case along with Smidt's already powered down laptop.

The remaining bedrooms in the villa – all six of them – turned up very little in the form of useful intelligence, although Michael was certainly impressed by the sheer amount of firepower these fools had at their fingertips. He carried the case down to the garage, pausing just beyond the doorway to marvel at the beauty of the four cars contained within. There was a brand new Lamborghini Murciélago, a cherry red Ferrari Enzo, a dark blue '64 Ford Mustang, two high-performance street cycles that Rivkin didn't immediately recognize, and finally, a '63 Aston Martin DB5 in absolutely pristine condition. Michael shook his head: evidently, Smidt (or whoever she had bought this villa from) had _fantastic_ taste in cars. After a moment of consideration, he secured the suitcase in the DB5's trunk before retracing his steps to the master bedroom

"Still alive?" he asked as he nudged the unmoving form of Regine Smidt with the toe of his boot. When she groaned softly, he sighed and drew his pistol. "Goodbye, Miss Smidt," he repeated before putting a single round into her head.

On the ground floor, he studied the security system before searching for the CDs containing the archival footage from the cameras. These too went into the DB5's trunk, alongside the weapons and cell phones retrieved from the various bedrooms. Michael gave the villa another quick walkthrough before shaking his head in slight disgust at the lack of actionable intel. He flipped open one of the cells and dialed a burn number.

_"Do you have my location?"_ he asked without greeting. The decision to use Farsi was a spur of the moment one.

_"I do,"_ Amit Hadar replied calmly. The older man's accent was impeccable, reminding Rivkin that Hadar was a legend within Mossad. There was nothing Michael had done or even imagined doing for the Institute that Amit had not already done. Twice.

_"I need a cleaning crew,"_ Michael said. _"Full service."_

_"Understood."_ Hadar was silent for a moment. _"How many?"_ he asked and Rivkin spent a second counting off the bodies.

_"Ten,"_ he finally said._ "Extraction?"_

_"Do you have transport?"_

_"Yes." _Michael smiled at the notion of driving the Aston Martin and idly wondered if he could arrange to keep it afterward. Knowing Tony's love of the Bond franchise, it would make a perfect apology for failing to keep DiNozzo safe…

Providing they managed to find him alive, of course. Although he knew it was irrational, Rivkin didn't even want to imagine a scenario where either of them died, not now when they were so close to going back to their normal lives.

_"Proceed to Milan,_" Amit ordered, _"and stand by for further contact." _The line went dead.

And ten hours later, Michael received the phone call that changed everything.

* * *

**A/N #2:** Yes, I'm aware that some people do not like these Michael POV chapters when none of the Regular Characters are present, but I stand by my decision to continue using them. I know I mentioned once in the past how I approach POVs, but it may warrant a repeat - every single character thinks they are the Hero of their own story. Nobody wants to think that they're a supporting character ... which may explain why I've enjoyed writing Tim as much as I have ... although I must admit with whomever it was that said my Ducky doesn't sound entirely right. For some reason, I just can't get a handle on Dr. Mallard.

And yeah, you're supposed to be a tad bit disturbed by what Mike did above. The man is an _assassin _and, unlike the canon show, I'm not going to pussy-foot around that fact or try to cast it in a happy, shiny light. He does bad things so other people don't have to. Or, as Churchill is reputed to have said while paraphrasing Orwell: _"We sleep soundly in our beds because rough men stand ready in the night to visit violence on those who would do us harm."_


	80. The Widening Gyre, 30: Jenny

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: **Rated **M **for language, sexual situations, violence, and the occasional flying monkey man.

* * *

**Jenny**

The bourbon wasn't helping.

Leaning back in her chair, Jen put down the report she had been trying to read for nearly an hour and stared at the half-filled glass as if it were to blame for her current lack of concentration. The urge to throw the glass across the room swelled so she carefully placed it on her desk and pushed herself to her feet. Every one of the experts she had consulted over the last year about her … condition had advised her to cut back or completely eliminate her alcohol consumption entirely, so it was probably for the best that she couldn't sip the bourbon without tasting blood.

Her email program pinged softly, alerting her to new messages, and Jen took a few moments to examine them, hoping against hope that they contained good news for a change. She exhaled a bitter sigh the moment she realized they were routine status reports from overseas team leaders and not the hoped for intel that would point them toward Agent DiNozzo and Ziva. Each hour that passed without either of them popping back up on the grid only made it less likely that they _would _reappear, and Jen knew that everyone involved would blame her.

Which was as it should be since she _was _responsible and she already hated herself for that fact.

She pushed herself out of her chair and paced back and forth across her office for several minutes, opening and closing her hands in an attempt to loosen up the muscles in her fingers. For a change, her balance wasn't off, though the headache pounding through her skull had not abated since she first rolled out of bed this morning and the vision in her left eye was blurrier than it should be. Jen grimaced before turning toward the door.

Cynthia had long since gone home – it almost midnight, after all – and Shepard paused briefly in front of her secretary's desk to check the telephone message pad. The sound of muted voices from the bullpen drew her attention and Jen made her way to the open door to look down at the major crimes area. Jethro and Agent McGee stood in front of one of the wide-screen monitors, facing away from her office, and Shepard could just make out the images of dozens of scanned text documents on the screen.

"How the hell does this help us find them, McGee?" Gibbs' growl carried over the empty office and was so familiar that it almost made Jen smile.

Almost.

"I never said it did," Agent McGee replied crossly. Shepard blinked in surprise at the sight of the younger man standing up to Jethro, though she could see the exhaustion on both men's faces and doubted McGee even realized how sharp his words sounded. "You asked me what I've been doing," Gibbs' senior field agent said, "and this is it." McGee exhaled bitterly and scratched his immobilized arm with his left hand. "We've got too much information right now, Boss," the younger man said. "I don't even know where to start."

"Figure it out, McGee!" Gibbs snapped harshly. He stormed away, hands balled up in tight fists, and Jen could see the younger agent shoot his boss a disgruntled look before returning to his desk. Within seconds, he was thoroughly engrossed in whatever he was doing on his computer.

Blowing out a deep breath, Shepard walked slowly down the stairs, suddenly grateful that there was no one around to see how much trouble she had with such a simple thing as this. Midway down, her sense of balance went … wobbly and it was only her tight grip on the railing that kept her from falling. The moment passed slowly and, by the time she reached the floor, she was back to normal. Or at least as normal as she could be these days.

McGee visibly jumped in surprise when she stopped in front of his desk, and the emotions that flickered across his face when he recognized her – anger, distrust, grief, hate, resentment – were quickly concealed behind the mask of professionalism he always wore around her. Jen forced down the instinctive rush of self-disgust that surged within her when she had to interact with him – now, long after the fact, she was able to admit that her driving need to take René Benoit down had gotten out of hand – and made a mental note to append another commendation in McGee's personnel file. After what she had done to him, he deserved every single one of the accolades she could heap on him.

"Director," the young man greeted coolly. He didn't return the hesitant smile she offered him, though Jen knew that she couldn't blame him.

"How can I help?" she asked without preamble. McGee blinked and wet his lips, glancing once at his computer monitor and then back at her. "I _am_ the director of a federal agency, Agent McGee," Jen pointed out. "Whatever you need, I can get you."

"We're swamped with data," McGee said hesitantly. "I could really use some more eyes on this."

"Do you have anyone specific in mind?" she asked. McGee nodded.

"Daniel Keating," he replied instantly. "I know he's in Jacksonville right now-"

"He'll be on a plane in an hour," Jen interrupted. "Anyone else?" McGee hesitated and she gave him a tight smile. "Make a list, Agent McGee," she instructed, "and I'll see that they're put at your disposal."

"Thank you, ma'am." Jen started to turn away, but instead forced herself to meet the young agent's eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said simply, her voice soft but thick with all of the emotion that she couldn't quite verbalize. McGee's eyes narrowed and he gave her a single, tight nod before returning his full attention to his computer monitor. The unspoken dismissal was clear and she took it as such, wincing at the bitter flood of self-recrimination that came as she walked toward the stairs. How had she let it come to this?

She spent the next hour on the phone, calling in markers owed to her or simply abusing her authority as NCIS director to get what she wanted. Within thirty minutes, Agent Keating was crammed in the rear seat of an F/A-18F Super Hornet at Jacksonville for depot-level maintenance as it raced toward D.C., and Jen knew she would be receiving a phone call from an irate SecNav in the morning when he found out about what appeared to be an misappropriation of funds. The other three names that McGee had emailed her were all in the D.C. area, which made things much easier.

Jethro's unexpected entrance into her office sometime later caused her to jump, and Jen bit back a startled curse when she realized that she had been staring at the wall without actually seeing it for at least twenty or thirty minutes. She glanced up and met his eyes.

"Something I can do for you, Jethro?" she asked.

"I've got three people downstairs who said you called them in to help McGee," Gibbs replied.

"It'll be four when Keating arrives," Jen said. When Gibbs stared at her, she sighed. "McGee and Abby are overwhelmed, Jethro," she said, "and I will use _every _resource available to find our missing people."

"Especially since it's your fault they're out there," Gibbs almost snarled. She did not take his tone personally – the one thing she'd noticed over the years was how much he lashed out when people he cared about were put in danger. Instead, she nodded.

"Yes," she agreed. Her head pounded and she rubbed her temples. "I am responsible," Shepard remarked flatly, "and I will do everything in my power to make this right." Jethro grunted, but she could see him relax slightly as if in approval.

"How long?" he asked abruptly. She glanced up and found him studying her with an unfathomable expression on his face. "How long do you have left?" he asked when she gave him a questioning look.

Jen's breath caught.

"What?" she squeaked, blushing at how undignified she sounded. Gibbs frowned and took a quick step to the door so he could close it.

"I'm not stupid, Jen," he said a moment later. He dropped into one of the chairs in front of her desk and leaned forward. "You've done a good job at hiding the symptoms…"

"Just not from you," she muttered before sighing. "I don't know how long I have," she said. "None of the _experts _I've spoken to can tell me because none of them can explain what's happening to me." Shepard nearly spat out the term 'experts,' even though she couldn't really blame them. In her darker moments – which were coming more frequently as her condition deteriorated – she wondered if she actually deserved this, if God himself was punishing her for all the bad things she had done in her life and the people she had wronged. "It's a rapidly degenerative form of multiple sclerosis," Jen revealed slowly. "All of the doctors I've spoken to are baffled over how quickly it's progressing."

"And there's nothing they can do." It was more of a statement than a question, but Shepard nodded anyway.

"Looks that way," she said before laughing bitterly. "On the bright side," she said, "I'll have a new medical condition named after me." Jethro frowned.

"This certainly explains some things," Gibbs rumbled. He looked torn between being angry and sad, and Jen realized how badly she hoped it was the latter. "You were always focused, Jen," he said, "but lately, it's become an obsession." Shepard bristled.

"I've been doing my job," she hissed.

"Does your job include thoroughly screwing up McGee's life so you could take down the Frog?" Jethro retorted sharply, his words causing her to recoil. "Or sending DiNozzo back undercover when he was still recovering from burying two friends?" Jen looked away, unwilling to admit that he was right. "The SecNav never signed off on the Domino op, did he?"

"No." Grimacing, Jen met his implacable stare and hated what she saw reflected in his eyes. He had always possessed the ability to look at her and truly _see _the person she was. When they were together, it had made her feel cherished, loved, but now? Now, he looked at her and she could see the accusations that he would never vocalize. And if Tony or Ziva died? He would probably hate her as much if not more than he hated Ari Haswari.

And that hurt more than she wanted to admit.

"It wasn't supposed to turn out like this," Jen said softly. She pulled her left desk drawer and extracted one of the bottles concealed within. Swallowing one of the pills dry, she glanced once at Jethro and then at the clock on the far wall. "I had … hoped …" She trailed off, unsure how to explain her reasoning. At the time, it had seemed so clear but now, it felt more like the maddened delusions of a dying woman terrified that her life had been for naught.

"You wanted to leave your mark," Gibbs guessed. His voice was soft and surprisingly compassionate, though his eyes remained hard. "This can't continue, Jen. You can't keep using NCIS to wage your private wars."

The ringing of his cell prevented her from responding. Jethro grunted at whatever it was he saw on his phone and headed for the door without further comment, flipping it open and answering it with a sharp, "Gibbs."

Jen watched him depart with a frown on her face and wondered if they would ever again be able to have a conversation as honest as this one. He was entirely correct – she _had _overstepped her authority and pushed the limits of what she could get away with … exactly like he had taught her to do so many years ago. She swallowed the instinctive urge to blame everything that had gone wrong on him, no matter how tempting it was to do so. This was her mess, not his. Somehow, she had lost sight of Gibbs' rule number one – _never _screw over your partner – and Jen knew that she would need to take responsibility for her mistakes. Her first step would be to type up a letter of resignation in which she laid out in careful detail what she had done and why. And then? Well, she was already dying, so pushing forward that time table wasn't entirely out of the question…

The buzz of her private line pulled her from her morbid thoughts and Jen reached for the phone.

"Jennifer Shepard," she said.

"Hello, Director," a familiar voice answered. Jen's expression darkened.

"I hope this isn't a personal call, Mister Kort," she snapped.

"Not in the least," the CIA agent replied. "I'm calling on behalf of my director," he continued. "It seems we've come into possession of a computer of yours and need to arrange its return." Shepard grimaced; she wondered what this was going to cost her.

"I'm listening," she said sharply.

* * *

**A/N #2:** Since the canon show actually went out of their way to avoid identifying exactly what it was that Shepard was suffering from (likely because they were making it up as they went), I made my own call, utilizing internet research, some made-up nonsense (since this _is _NCIS which is quite often guilty of just not bothering to do the research), and some expert advice from the lovely Dr. **Sashile**. AFAIK, there is no actual super-MS like I implied here.

And, lest you ask, no, I'm not really a big fan of Shepard's, not after season 4. I love Lauren Holly, but the showrunners really raped the dog when it came to her character in s4 and s5. It is, IMO, an unfortunate tendency of the show's: to turn previously sane female characters into crazy people (cough*seasonseven*cough*ziva*cough.)


	81. The Widening Gyre, 31: Jethro

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: **Rated **M **for language, sexual situations, violence, and the occasional flying monkey man.

* * *

**Jethro**

Of all the people Gibbs had expected to hear from tonight, Eli David was near the bottom of the list.

"I have been contacted by someone who may be able to assist," the Mossad director said without bothering to identify himself. Jethro frowned as he pushed Jenny's door shut and headed toward the stairs leading down to the bullpen; his automatic first instinct was to distrust David – the man had turned both of his children into killers, after all, and Gibbs couldn't help but to wonder if this was a trap.

"And?" Jethro's response was sharp enough that it caused McGee to look back from where he stood in front of the plasma, and the three NCIS agents crowding around him followed his line of sight. At Gibbs' dark look, the quartet quickly turned back to the monitor.

"He is in Washington," David said, "and wants to meet with you specifically."

"Where?" Despite his concern that this might be a set-up for the Mossad director to finally get revenge for Ari, Gibbs knew that he was going to be there. He would walk through fire for his people, suffer whatever pain was necessary, and if there was any chance at all that this could lead to finding Tony and Ziva, then Jethro would willingly walk into the jaws of hell itself. Hell, he wouldn't walk – he'd _sprint._

"The Washington monument, one hour," the Mossad director said. "If this information proves to be accurate," he continued hesitantly, "I would like to be informed." There was a slight tremble in Eli David's voice, one so subtle that Jethro doubted anyone who _hadn't _lost a child would even hear it, but still, Gibbs wondered if he was being played. It would be entirely within David's character to use a potential tragedy involving his daughter for his own purposes.

"And I'm just supposed to trust _you?"_ he demanded.

"I have buried two children, Agent Gibbs," the Israeli replied harshly, the words causing Jethro to frown. Two? He knew about Ari, but who was number two? He was suddenly reminded of the photo that he'd seen in Ziva's apartment when she vanished to join Tony on this ridiculous op. "I do not wish to bury a third," David said flatly. "You of all people should understand." Gibbs glowered, even though he knew the Mossad director couldn't see his face.

"If it pans out," he allowed darkly, "I'll call you."

"Be cautious," David ordered abruptly. "This man is not to be trusted." The phone line went dead.

"McGee!" Gibbs called out as he stormed toward the elevator. "I'm going for coffee!" He didn't wait for a response as he ducked through the opening doors, but the sensation of being watched caused him to glance in the direction of the director's office where he met Jenny's eyes. She clung to the railing as if it was a lifeline and Jethro gave her a slow nod that she returned just as solemnly. Right now, he didn't want to … no, he _couldn't _think about what she had told him minutes earlier. There would be time later for him to reflect on what to do with this new information (if anything), but at the moment, he needed to concentrate on Tony and Ziva. Nothing else mattered. Nothing.

Worries over the two missing agents and Jenny's condition had him so distracted that he nearly ran over Michelle Lee as he exited the elevator once it reached the ground floor. She squawked in loud surprise while quickly springing back out of the way. Gibbs gave her a sidelong glance, rolling his eyes at Jimmy Palmer's worried presence just behind her, but didn't bother greeting either of them as he strode toward the parking lot. Instead, he fished his phone out of his pocket and dialed McGee's number.

"Special Agent-" Tim began.

"Lee is in the building with Palmer," Gibbs interrupted. "Find her and put her to work." He hung up without waiting for a response. It wasn't as if he had anything against Palmer – to be honest, he actually liked the boy better than any of Ducky's previous assistants – but using the NCIS building as a location for one of their trysts was unacceptable. Honestly, didn't they have apartments? Besides, Lee's knowledge of international law might prove to be useful in locating his absent people.

He was halfway to the Monument when he realized that he had left his primary Sig in his desk at the office. After a few seconds of thought, he decided against turning back to retrieve it or deviating to his house for one of the spares; the backup .38 he kept strapped to his ankle should be more than enough for a simple meeting. Eli David's words – _this man is not to be trusted _– rolled around in his head, though, and Jethro frowned. He hoped this wasn't a mistake.

Just in case, he transferred the .38 to his belt at the next stop light.

The monument at night was stunning, prompting Gibbs to realize that, despite having lived in D.C. for over a decade now, he hadn't actually been sightseeing since before Shannon and Kelly had died. Illuminated by carefully aimed lights, the structure climbed into the dark sky, a gleaming obelisk of marble, granite and sandstone that could be seen for miles in all directions. Jethro parked his Charger and spent a few moments admiring the monument before climbing out of the car and heading toward the ring of park benches.

"Hello, Agent Gibbs," a familiar voice greeted him. Jethro flinched – though he managed to mostly conceal it – and half turned to face a man he'd hoped to never see again. Automatically, Gibbs' hand fell to the holstered revolver and he glared darkly.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't just shoot you, Kort," he growled. The CIA agent offered a wry smirk.

"Because then I can't help you," Kort replied.

"Like you helped me with McGee?" Jethro tightened his grip on the pistol at his belt. "Or like you helped Harari?"

"I was following orders, Gibbs." The CIA agent took a seat on a nearby bench facing the monument, placing a secured briefcase on the ground next to his feet. "Surely a former Marine such as yourself can understand that." Jethro bristled – he desperately wanted to knock the smug look off the man in front of him, to make sure that Kort knew he and his people were _not _chess pieces to be manipulated and maneuvered at the whims of shadowy puppet masters, but suspected that giving into his primal urges was probably a bad idea no matter how tempting. "Besides," Kort said with another smirk, "it turned out well in the end, didn't it? I understand Agent Fornell actually received a commendation for taking down a terrorist cell." The CIA agent leaned back against the bench. "But that isn't why you're here, is it?"

"If you've got something to say," Gibbs snapped, "then _say _it and stop wasting my time." He took a step closer, emphasizing how his hand was wrapped around the butt of his .38.

"I don't know where your people are," Kort began.

"Then you're useless to me," Gibbs retorted as he turned away.

"I don't know where they are," the CIA agent repeated, "but I might be able to point you in the right direction." Jethro paused and gave the man a significant look. Without a hint of humor on his face, Kort reached for the case and popped it open. He extracted a thick manila envelope. "NSA intercepts of some specific European cell phone chatter we've been keeping an eye on," he identified. "I included a complete copy of the data on this organization I obtained while on the La Grenouille op and there might be a couple of things in there that both NCIS and Mossad are unaware of." With his left hand, he offered the envelope. "I don't have access to all of the data your people have right now," Kort continued, "but this should help narrow down the options."

For the span of a single heartbeat, Jethro hesitated. From what little he had managed to find out about this man, he knew that accepting help would have a price down the road. The question Gibbs faced was whether finding his two missing agents was ultimately worth owing this man. _Absolutely, _his mind, heart and gut agreed at the same time. _No_ price was too high if it would lead him to Tony and Ziva. If Kort had been the Devil himself, Jethro suspected he'd be willing to deal.

So he accepted the envelope.

"If I find out anything else," Kort said as he pushed himself to his feet, "I'll let you know."

"You do that," Gibbs said. He turned his back on the CIA agent and walked toward his car, instinctively tensing for a surprise attack. When none came, he glanced back.

Kort was gone.

Jethro used the siren on his way back to the Navy Yard and drove faster than normal, weaving in and out of the sparse late night (or was it early morning?) traffic with a blatant disregard for the rules of the road. It wasn't until he stepped out of the elevator and found himself walking toward the bullpen that Gibbs realized that he hadn't even thought about Domino during his brief conversation with Kort. Cursing himself under his breath, he drew up sharply the moment he realized that his desk was already occupied. Shaking his head, he dropped the envelope on it.

"New intel," Gibbs said sharply. "Should help you narrow down the search." McGee nodded and, with surprising grace for someone limited to one arm at the moment, opened the envelope and dumped out the two CD cases onto his desk. He glanced up, a question in his eyes, and Jethro grimaced. "I don't trust the source," he said, "so make sure he can't use that to screw us over." McGee nodded.

"I'll use a non-networked machine, Boss," the younger man said. "As long as there's no sensitive material on that computer, it should be safe." Gibbs grunted as he gave the bullpen a quick glance. Lee was hunched over her computer, a sour look on her face, and all of the other desks – McGee's, Ziva's, even the Probie's desk – were occupied, though Jethro barely recognized any of the occupants. Another stranger stood in front of the plasma, rapidly cycling through photographs and forms filled out in DiNozzo's distinctive scrawl; every few seconds, this person – he must be the Keating that Jen had mentioned earlier – would pause on something and make a note on a small notepad before resuming his search. There appeared to be no rhyme or reason for his stops, though it obviously made sense to him.

"Anything?" Gibbs asked, returning his attention to an utterly exhausted-looking McGee.

"Not yet, Boss," Tim replied. He rubbed his eyes with the fingers of his free hand before suddenly seeming to realize that he was sitting behind Jethro's desk as if it belonged to him. McGee shot to his feet. "Sorry, Boss!" he said rapidly. "I didn't mean-"

"Sit down, McGee." Jethro's tone brooked no dissent and Tim sank back into the chair. "Keep at it and let me know the minute you find something. I'm going to check with Abby."

_"That _was Agent Gibbs?" the newcomer – Keating – asked as Jethro entered the elevator. "He doesn't seem that scary."

"That's because you don't know him very well," Lee retorted. Gibbs smirked slightly, though his good humor vanished before he even really noticed it and he mashed the button for the sub-level with slightly more force than necessary. It should be Tony making a smart-ass comment about him, not a glorified lawyer with a gun like Lee.

"I don't have anything, Gibbs," Abby said the moment he swept into her lab. Her hair was down and she was wearing no make-up. Even more damning, though, was the absolute lack of music. Jethro gave the three full Caf-Pow cups on the desk a quick glance but made no comment. "We're never going to see them again, are we?" Abby asked a moment later, her voice cracking as she spoke. Jethro winced – he hated lying to her – and instead kissed her on the temple. She sniffed loudly, looking at him with tears in her eyes. "I can't do this again, Gibbs. Not after losing Kate and Paula."

"We'll find them, Abs." Gibbs gave her another affectionate smile and headed for the door before she could question whether Tony or Ziva would be alive when they _did _find them. It was a question he didn't have an answer for at the moment.

With nothing to do but wait – never before had Jethro realized how badly his technological illiteracy could hamper an investigation, and he made a silent resolution to work on changing that once his people were safe – Gibbs headed for the break room for a coffee refill. While waiting for the machine to start brewing, he pulled out his phone and placed a quick pizza delivery order from a twenty-hour place that probably relied on his team's all-nighters to stay in business. It wouldn't really make up for his lack of computer skills, but at least it would be _something._

When he returned to the bullpen nearly an hour later, pizzas in hand, Gibbs could feel the change in atmosphere and his heart rate instinctively sped up. He studied the body language of McGee and Keating as they stood in front of the plasma, discussing something that might as well have been Swahili for all the sense it made to Jethro. There were references to IPs, and sockets, and protocol stacks, and TCP and UDP ports … whatever the hell it was they were discussing, it had all of them excited.

"Boss!" McGee exclaimed when Jethro dropped the pizzas on Tim's desk. "I think we've got something!"

"You think?" Gibbs crossed his arms and studied the plasma, fighting to keep the desperate hope from showing on his face. He squinted as he tried to make out the Cyrillic lettering on the scanned form dominating the monitor. Damn, his Russian was rusty. "A logging camp?" he asked. The shock stamped on the faces of the entirely too young men and women standing around him would have been funny at any other time.

"Converted from a Soviet-era gulag outside of Arkangelsk," Keating confirmed, his Russian accent surprisingly good. He blinked rapidly under Gibbs' stare.

"The NSA intercepts mentioned getting this place operational again," McGee rushed to explain, "and we've found a bunch of references to the shipment of industrial generators."

"What we really need," Keating mused, "is some satellite images of the region."

"You'll get them." Jenny's voice rang out over the bullpen, causing most of the junior agents to jump in surprise. She stood on the stairwell looking down into the bullpen. Without further comment, she pulled out her cell phone and began dialing a number.

And, for the first time since he'd learned that Tony and Ziva had been captured, Gibbs felt a rush of hope.

_Hold on, you two, _he thought. _We're coming._

* * *

**A/N #2:** Alas, poor Jenny. So few of you seemed to care about her. Did I overdo her butt monkeyness? Eh ... never mind. Let's focus on Gibbs! And Kort! And Eli! And Keating ... er ...


	82. The Widening Gyre, 32: Leon

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: **Rated **M **for language, sexual situations, violence, and the occasional flying monkey man.

This chapter includes another "soft crossover" (brief use or mention of names and characters) from the NBC show, _Chuck._

* * *

**Leon**

The ringing of his phone woke him instantly.

Jackie mumbled something incoherent and rolled over as Leon turned on the small lamp on the small dresser and reached for the phone. He blinked at the number – Jennifer Shepard – before squinting at the alarm clock and frowning. What the hell was she doing calling him at three thirty in the morning?

"Vance," he said once he flipped the phone open.

"MTAC, twenty minutes," Shepard said without preamble. Leon started to reply, but the director continued, her voice firm. "Kismet, case orange," she added, and all traces of sleep vanished. Vance drew in a sharp breath.

"Twenty minutes," Leon acknowledged before snapping the cell shut and sliding out of bed. He gave Jackie a quick glance – she had pulled the sheet up over her head to block out the light from the lamp – and quickly turned the lamp back off. Despite the darkness, he dressed as quickly and as quietly as he could, but Jackie's voice stopped him at the bedroom door.

"What's going on?" she mumbled.

"Called into work," Leon replied. He crossed to her side of the bed and kissed her forehead. "Go back to sleep."

He paused in the living room, frowning at the presence of his daughter passed out on the couch. Fully dressed, she looked to have just come in, likely from the party he and Jackie had _explicitly _forbade her from attending, and the smell of alcohol and cigarettes hung around her like a cloud. Leon grimaced; if case orange hadn't been instituted, he would call Jenny and tell her that he would be late before shaking Lily awake and demanding an explanation. Still, he knew he couldn't let this pass without _something _being done, so he kicked the couch.

Hard.

Lily woke instantly, her eyes widening at his presence. She opened her mouth to speak, to come up with an unlikely excuse, but Leon was quicker.

"We _will_ talk about this later, young lady," he said tightly, letting his voice express the anger coursing through his veins. A mulish look crossed her face – she _had _to have inherited this stubborn streak from her mother – and she raised her chin defiantly. With his left hand, Leon pointed in the direction of her bedroom. Lily staggered only slightly as she obeyed and Leon shot a look heavenward. _Give me strength, _he prayed, all the while wondering if his daughter was going to be as much trouble as he was at her age. God, he hoped not.

He arrived at the Navy Yard just shy of four a.m., though the bullpen seemed to be as active as it would be at regular work hours. Leon frowned at some of the faces crowded around the monitor in front of Gibbs' desk; what the hell was Daniel Keating doing here? He was supposed to be in Jacksonville, helping Special Agent Ruiz bring down several suspected embezzlers working at the shipyards. Vance shook his head in a vain attempt to clear it and walked to the door leading into MTAC.

To his utter lack of surprise, Gibbs and McGee were inside with the director, with the latter manning the control console despite his immobilized right arm. On the huge screen, a larger than life image of Air Force Lieutenant General Diane Beckman, the current director of the National Security Agency, was studying Shepard with a sour, almost disbelieving look on her face. As Leon drew closer to Shepard and Gibbs, Beckman's comments explained her foul mood.

"I don't think you quite understand what you're asking for, Jen," Beckman was saying. "The NSA does not employ hackers." Gibbs coughed abruptly to cover up what sounded like a snort of disbelief, and Shepard gave him a flat, unamused look, before returning her full attention to the main viewscreen.

"I wouldn't ask this if it wasn't necessary, Diane," she said. "This satellite is the only one that has an angle on a location of interest."

"It's Russian!" the general exclaimed. "You're asking me to risk this agency to hack into a Russian satellite!" Beckman shook her head. "This sort of thing causes wars," she said with a frown, "so I'm afraid that I'm going to have to-"

"This involves Operation Kismet," Leon said abruptly. He stepped into the field of view of the camera and crossed his arms. "We have two agents in danger and need to move on this immediately."

"Kismet?" Beckman leaned back in her chair, frowning slightly. "Is this absolutely necessary, Leon?" Vance fought back the urge to laugh when both Gibbs and Director Shepard turned to look at him, questions in their eyes. He nodded.

"We're out of options," he replied before smiling. "You still owe me for getting your boy Casey out of Chechnya," Leon added with a smile. Beckman shook her head before sighing.

"I need an hour," she said. "Maybe two." Frowning, she reached toward the camera. "I'll be in touch," she added before ending the connection.

"Chechnya?" Shepard asked with a slight smile that didn't entirely touch her eyes.

"Long story," Leon replied. The director gave him a long, appraising look, before glancing toward McGee.

"Make the connection with Tel Aviv," she ordered.

"On it, Boss," McGee said instantly, flushing under the momentarily amused glance that both Gibbs and Shepard sent him. They exchanged a quick look and sobered almost instantly.

"I hope," Vance remarked wryly, his words drawing the director's attention, "that I didn't just make a mistake with the general. I've been holding onto that particular favor for a while now and I'd hate for it to be wasted."

"Me too," Gibbs said before taking one of the seats. Director Shepard gave the silver-haired man a quick look that Leon suspected he wasn't supposed to have seen; in that moment, the emotions in her eyes – anger, despair, longing – were visible for anyone to see, though they vanished a mere heartbeat later. She looked away from Gibbs, meeting Vance's eyes and blushing slightly before the mask of pure professionalism was once more firmly back in place.

"I have Tel Aviv online," McGee called out before she could speak, and the director nodded in the younger agent's direction. A moment later, an exhausted-looking Eli David appeared on the main viewscreen. He was looking away, nodding slightly as if he was speaking to someone out of the camera's field of view, but turned his full focus toward them a moment later.

"Director," he said by way of greeting.

"Agent McGee identified a logging camp outside Arkangelsk we believe to be where Agent DiNozzo and Officer David are being held," Shepard said without preamble.

"It was once a gulag, yes?" Eli half-turned away and banged away at an unseen keyboard. Gibbs frowned slightly at how quickly the Mossad director identified the camp, but Leon knew that Eli was simply more familiar with the intelligence. Knowing the Israeli, he'd memorized every scrap of information available in his desperate attempt to find his daughter.

"Yes," Jen said. She gestured to McGee and the younger agent tapped several keys. On the main viewscreen, the results of his hard work appeared. Most of the scanned forms were in Cyrillic, but a couple appeared to be handwritten notes that Leon recognized from DiNozzo's reports. "We're waiting to get satellite imaging of the target for confirmation, but everything is pointing toward this camp."

"Satellite imaging is insufficient," Eli said flatly. He frowned. "We need someone on the ground to verify. I will instruct Officer Rivkin to leave for Arkangelsk immediately." Gibbs cleared his throat and Shepard nodded, as if her old partner had actually said something.

"Who do we have in Europe that we can trust on this?" she asked, directing her question to Leon.

"Agent Callen is in Prague," Vance replied without hesitation. Gibbs nodded in approval, which immediately reminded Leon that the two men had worked together in the past. "I can have him meet with Rivkin in Moscow."

"Do it," Shepard said. Vance turned away from the screen and headed toward the exit.

He spent the next forty minutes trying to track Callen down, finally having to resort to calling Sam Hanna, the senior field agent of the Los Angeles OSP office. On a whim, Leon also ordered Hanna to London with instructions to coordinate with one of the SEAL Team Two platoons stationed in Germany and prepare for an extraction op. Less than five minutes after he finished speaking with Sam, Leon's secure line rang.

"It's me," came Callen's expected voice. "Gibbs already filled me in," he said, the remark causing Vance to roll his eyes and wonder how Jethro had been able to contact the younger man. "Can I trust this guy I'm supposed to meet?"

"I think so," Leon replied, "but use your own judgment."

"Just like old times, huh?" Callen asked with a slight chuckle that Leon returned. It had been a long time since they worked together, and on days like this, Vance found himself very much missing OSP. "I'll check in once I reach Moscow," Callen said before disconnecting.

Director Shepard was speaking softly on the phone when Leon entered her office, so he loitered just inside the doorway, trying hard not to eavesdrop even though her secretive body language made him desperately curious. He caught only a single name – Gates – but it was enough for him to piece together the purpose of the phone conversation. When she gestured for him to enter, Leon obeyed.

"Callen is on the way to Moscow," he reported the moment she hung up her phone. "I also took the liberty of ordering Agent Hanna of OSP to London." Jen frowned, the lack of recognition at the name written upon her face.

"Hanna?"

"Ex-SEAL," Leon explained, gratefully sinking into the chair she gestured toward. "If DiNozzo and David _are_ at that camp," he continued, "we'll need an extraction team capable of getting in and out without being detected by the Russians."

"SEAL Team Two," Shepard guessed. Leon nodded.

"Sam speaks their language so having him onboard as a liaison will help out," he said.

"Good thinking, Leon," the director said before leaning back into her chair. "Do you know William Decker?" she asked abruptly. Vance frowned.

"The name sounds familiar," he admitted, "but it isn't ringing any bells."

"Gibbs and I worked with him in Europe," Shepard said before pinching the bridge of her nose. "He passed away several days ago – heart attack – and I'll be flying out to Los Angeles tomorrow to attend his funeral."

_Ah, _Leon mused. So, that was the excuse she was going to use to cover her real intentions. He frowned and leaned forward. It was long past time to put his cards on the table.

"Will you also be visiting Doctor Gates while you're there?" he asked calmly. The director's reaction was exactly what he expected it to be.

She flinched.

For a long moment, Shepard stared at him in silence, her face giving absolutely nothing away. Leon met her gaze with an equally impassive look of his own, knowing that, if he had to, he could press much harder than she would like. He hadn't gone so far as to track down a copy of her actual medical records for confirmation about his theory, but if she forced him to, he was willing to take that step.

"You have good sources," she finally said long minutes later, her voice soft.

"I do," Vance confirmed. "I also have personal experience with MS," he added, not bothering to go into any more detail than necessary. "For what it's worth," Leon said, "I'm sorry." Jen nodded in appreciation. "Can I take it that you'll be using some of your personal leave for this trip?" he asked after a moment. It wasn't exactly the question he wanted to ask her – was there an easy way to ask how much longer a person had to live? – but hopefully let her know that he was on her side since there was probably a regulation somewhere that required him to report this to the SecNav.

"You will be in charge of the extraction op," she replied smoothly, her eyes glittering brightly. "Do what you have to, Leon," Jen said, "but bring our people back."

"That's the plan," he replied. "Will there be anything else, Director?" Shepard shook her head, and Leon quietly left her office. He met Gibbs' eyes as he left – the ex-sniper was even harder to read than the director, though Leon thought he could see muted pain in Jethro's face – and gave the man a slow nod. To his surprise, Gibbs stopped in front of him.

"I need to be part of the extraction team," Jethro said.

"If we get confirmation that they're at the camp," Leon replied softly, his voice pitched only for Gibbs' ears, "you _and _McGee will be going to Europe." Jethro looked momentarily relieved before narrowing his eyes.

"Europe?" he repeated. "But not Russia?"

"That's correct," Vance said. He met Jethro's dark look with one of bland indifference. "You're too close to this," he pointed out. "I need people focused on getting our people out of there, not someone out for vengeance."

"Someone like Rivkin?" Gibbs demanded harshly. Leon shrugged – it was a valid point; the Mossad officer likely _was _too emotionally involved to be impartial.

"Director David made that call," he said. When the man in front of him drew in a frustrated breath, Vance gave him a slight smile. "I know you want to be there, Jethro," he said, "but my decision stands." Leon didn't wait for a response as he turned away and walked toward the door leading to MTAC.

Twenty minutes later, General Beckman contacted him with the satellite imaging, confirming that not only was the logging camp operational, but it was heavily manned. There was no sign of DiNozzo or David, of course, but the circumstantial evidence was too significant to ignore. Leon gave Shepard (who had joined him in MTAC when Beckman responded) a glance and she nodded. Blowing out a deep breath, Vance turned to look in Gibbs' direction. Jethro stood only a few steps away from where McGee sat at the control board, but both men were staring at Leon with eyes so intense that it was almost painful to look at.

"Pack your bags," Leon told them. "You're on the next flight to Europe."

* * *

**A/N #2:** General Beckman is from _Chuck_, in case you didn't already know that. For those of you who are unfamiliar with NCIS: LA, both Callen and Sam Hanna are from that show; I'm not a major fan of the spinoff for a number of reasons that don't need to be gone into here, but I thought these two characters had potential in "Legend."


	83. The Widening Gyre, 33: Tony

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: **Rated **M **for language, sexual situations, violence, and the occasional flying monkey man.

* * *

**Tony**

It was an effort to remain conscious.

Tony slumped down in the chair he was shackled to, barely able to focus on anything but the agonizing pain that lanced through his body, beating time with his heart. He had long ago stopped trying to keep his head up and his shoulder straight in a defiant gesture – if it wasn't for the chains securing him in place, he'd fall off the chair and onto the stone floor. As it was, the handcuffs weren't the only thing keeping him on the chair – every few minutes, one of the guards outside the door would leave his post to walk across the small room and shove Tony back into place.

And there wasn't a thing Tony could do to take advantage of the man's casual approach.

Drantyev had been merciless during the interrogations, but displayed a surgical precision in his application of pain that almost seemed at odds with the brutality. To prevent Tony from trying to escape on foot, both of DiNozzo's legs had been broken. His arms had followed soon after and, just to be safe, Drantyev had taken a further step and dislocated both of Tony's shoulders, resulting in a perpetual state of agony, especially when DiNozzo tried to move his arms. His face hadn't escaped injury, though. Both eyes were so swollen that he couldn't see farther than a few feet, and, if the raspy sound when he inhaled was any indication, his nose was broken. The constant pain was excruciating, despite (or perhaps because of) with the various drugs they'd injected into him to lower his inhibitions and encourage truth. Even worse – or just as bad; Tony wasn't entirely sure which – was the ominous rattle he felt deep in his lungs whenever he breathed. There was a persistent tickle inside his chest that he recognized all too well; since his bout with the plague, he'd never quite had the lung capacity he used to and when winter set in, he had to take extra precautions to avoid bronchitis since, for him, it could be lethal.

_Not like you're getting out of this one, _the cynical part of his psyche murmured. He tried to grunt in agreement – God, that hurt – and just hoped there weren't any gutters around these parts so he wouldn't prove his father right after all.

He focused on his pain in a desperate but ultimately vain attempt to block out the images of what these bastards had done to Ziva when he wouldn't talk. A sob built deep within his throat and Tony could feel hot tears begin trickling out of his eyes. It was all his fault. He should have known she would end up being hurt. Every woman he dared to come close to suffered somehow. His mother, Kate, Dana, Paula, now Ziva. Every one. _He _may deserve this hell but she … they didn't.

"I see you are awake." Drantyev's cool voice caused Tony to flinch. He barely bit back a scream when his useless arms shifted, though his tormentor chuckled at the whimper that escaped Tony's lips. "If you cooperate, Agent DiNozzo," the Russian man said, "this will go much easier."

"Liar," Tony mumbled through swollen lips. He wanted to spit in this man's face, to show that he _hadn't _been beaten … but the fear of what would happen to him, to Ziva if he resisted again paralyzed him. The pain was just too much and a growing part of him knew he would do whatever he had to in order to make it stop. Already, he had spilled secrets he'd never wanted to reveal just to get the man to stop hurting him.

"Did you enjoy Dmitri's … attentions so much, Agent DiNozzo?" Drantyev's question caused Tony to recoil and scramble to push the terrible memories away. He fought to find something – _anything _– to focus on but that. "I thought not," Drantyev said with another sinister chuckle. "Answer my questions and we shall not need to rely on such crude measures, shall we?" Tony gave him a noncommittal grunt in response which the Russian apparently took as agreement as he pulled a capped syringe from inside his jacket. "Let us get started," Drantyev said before injecting the drugs into a vein on Tony's left arm.

The next few hours were a haze of pain and questions that did not stop. His blood felt like it was on fire and words tumbled from his lips before he could even think to prevent them, sometimes before he even realized what he'd been asked. Whenever Drantyev was dissatisfied with the answers he was receiving (which was pretty often), he resorted to physical assaults, punching or kicking or swinging a thick board of wood to emphasize his point. Tony stopped being able to tell where the agony began or ended, and he lost track of how many times he passed out.

Eventually, through the fog of agony, he pieced together the purpose of this line of questioning: they were still trying to find Michael and were afraid he was coming for them. Smidt was dead and they were terrified that they were next. Hope flared instantly, but died just as quickly when Drantyev redoubled his efforts to find out something that Tony didn't know. It became torture for torture's sake, and Tony slipped into unconsciousness more and more frequently.

_"He doesn't know where his back-up is." _The statement greeted him an indeterminate amount of time later as he clung to his last shreds of awareness, and Tony's abused brain labored to translate the Russian into something he understood. Blood was dripping down his naked chest and he had been pulled back in the chair so he was staring at the wooden ceiling.

_"Are you sure?" _ The new speaker was a woman, and Tony tried to roll his head around to see what she looked like. His vision swam in and out of focus, but he was finally able to make out three people. Drantyev was one of them, but the other two were both female and couldn't have been more different if they tried. The shorter of the two was blond, with hard features and eyes so cold that they could have frozen fire. He couldn't tell how old she was – anywhere from mid forties to early sixties – but the deferential way that Drantyev stood around her let Tony know that this was the boss, the Russian Ghost that he and Michael had been chasing almost two years now.

The other woman was taller than the Ghost, with raven black hair that fell to her mid-back and a complexion slightly darker than Ziva's. Even though he was barely conscious, DiNozzo noted that she was a beauty, mixing sensuality and lethality into a deceptively hot package. Just like Ziva. Something niggled at Tony's brain when he looked at the woman, though he wasn't sure why. Sure, she looked a little like that Iranian spy who had tried to frame Ziva, but clearly wasn't that woman, so why did he feel like he'd seen her before?

_"I am sure," _Drantyev said. _"He could not lie if he tried."_

_"Then he is no longer of any use to you," _the dark-haired beauty said in curiously accented Russian. _"Let me kill the Mossad whore," _she continued, almost eagerly.

_"She _has _ceased to be useful," _Drantyev remarked. Tony tried to speak, tried to force his unresponsive body to obey his commands, but could only groan. The trio glanced once in his direction but ignored him as they continued their conversation. _"David has killed or badly injured the last five men who tried to sample her charms," _Drantyev said, shaking his head ruefully. _"Now none of them dare to even enter her cell, so I can no longer use her as leverage against him."_

_"Keep her alive for now," _the Ghost ordered. _"She may still be of some use to us."_

_"This is a mistake," _the dark-haired woman said tightly. _"You should kill her now."_

Salima Farhan Smith. The name came to him suddenly, flooding Tony's awareness with sense memories of chasing after her husband aboard the _Enterprise _so long ago. She had killed her son … although the kid probably wasn't hers, even if she'd been a mother to him for years. Michael had been positive she was either Palestinian or Syrian, although their best efforts at identifying her came up empty. She had simply vanished like she never existed.

He was so distracted by the direction of his thoughts and the pounding agony thundering through his body that Tony lost track of the conversation for long moments. A familiar word – Shepard – caused him to claw his way out of the drug-induced flashback. Salima – or whatever her real name was – was gone, leaving only the Ghost and Drantyev.

_"You have confirmed this?" _the Ghost asked. There was a tremble in her voice, as if she wasn't sure whether to be happy or frightened.

_"It is," _Drantyev said. _"She will be attending Decker's funeral."_

_"Then arrange for a flight," _the Ghost ordered. _"We are going to Los Angeles where I will finally have the revenge I've been seeking for ten years."_ Without another word, she turned and walked out of the small room, leaving Drantyev and one other guard alone with Tony.

_"Throw him into David's cell," _Drantyev instructed, _"but keep an eye on them so they don't do something stupid."_

_"Yes, sir."_

_"And, Ivan? I expect them both to be alive when we return from America." _There was a dangerous edge to Drantyev's voice, and the guard – Ivan, Tony noted – visibly quailed before nodding. _"While you are at it, keep an eye on Haneyeh,_" Drantyev added with a frown. _"I don't trust her _not _to try and kill David."_

_"Yes, sir."_

Tony passed out while Ivan was unshackling him from the chair and woke up to find himself slung over the large Russian's shoulder. A small knife was secured to the man's belt mere inches away from DiNozzo's right hand. He grimaced and pushed through the agony coursing through his arm as he tried to wrap his fingers around the weapon.

_"Stop it," _Ivan snapped, grabbing the knife before Tony could pull it free. At the same time, the hefty man intentionally jostled DiNozzo's already broken limbs. This time, Tony wasn't able to keep the sharp cry of pain from escaping his lips. His vision darkened as unconsciousness once more beckoned but he fought to stay awake.

A few agonizing moments later, they reached their destination and Tony heard the grind of an abused metal door being pulled open. He was airborne a heartbeat later and smashed into the unyielding floor with a bone-jarring thump and a scream of agony when his broken limbs impacted against the hard surface. The door squealed once more before clanging shut with a hollow boom.

"Tony?" Ziva's soft voice pulled him out of the painful haze that had shrouded his mind and DiNozzo tried to push himself up so he could find her. Once again, white hot agony coursed through his body and he fell back against the floor with a whimper. He heard movement and, a moment later, a warm arm pulled him upright into a sitting position. Without a word, Ziva took a seat behind him, her good arm cradling his equally nude body to hers. Hot tears gushed from his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

"Shh." Her voice sounded odd and, as he craned his head around to look at her face, he realized her jaw was swollen. She began to rock him slowly, her arm anchoring him to her.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. It was the only thing he could think of to say even though he knew it wasn't enough. He had done this to her. He had dragged down the brightest part of his shitty life and ruined her. This mess was his fault. Saying that he was sorry once just wasn't enough.

So he kept saying it until darkness once more swallowed him.

* * *

**A/N #2:** And how many of you even remembered Salima? :P

Regarding the NCIS spin-off, I don't have anything personal against the notion of spin-offs (especially since NCIS _is _a spin-off), or even against NCIS: LA itself; the show simply hasn't grabbed my attention and held on. The crimes are so barely Navy or Marine Corps linked that it's hard to believe that NCIS would bother with most of them, and as an ex-Army guy, I laugh at the notion of the super-secret, hidden lair place. Frankly, the warehouse thing they had in "Legend" made a whole lot more sense. JMHO.


	84. The Widening Gyre, 34: Tim

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: **Rated **M **for language, sexual situations, violence, and the occasional flying monkey man.

The climax of this Part is rapidly approaching, so I may accelerate the posting schedule somewhat. Or maybe not, depending on how things play out.

* * *

**Tim**

The plane trip to Norway gave him far too much time to think.

Tim had brought along all of the data they'd received from Mossad and spent the first few hours of the trip studying it with the hope that he would find something that he'd overlooked the first time. Before he left, he'd made sure that Michelle would sign for the daily delivery of translated copies of _Deep Six _– he was up to twelve by last count and had to admit that Tony had outdone himself with this particular prank – and convinced Sarah to spend the next week with their parents. Just in case she decided to ignore him (which was _always _a strong possibility with her these days) he'd talked Abby into checking up on his sister … although, in retrospect, that might have been a mistake. The very last thing he needed to deal with when he got back to D.C. was the discovery that Sarah had decided to go ahead and get the angel wings tattoo on her back that she'd once expressed interest in. He could only imagine the look on their dad's face the moment he saw something like that; Tim was sure the old man _still _hadn't recovered from the first time he met Abby.

By the second hour of the plane trip, though, McGee had examined so much of the background material about the organization Tony and Michael had been trying to shut down that he was afraid his lunch was going to come back up. With each new document, he saw another example of uncompromising brutality and efficiency that painted a picture of a _very _dangerous group of criminals who would do _anything_ to protect their interests. Even DiNozzo's joke of a codename for the organization – SMERSH, likely used because of Tony's love of the Connery Bond movies – or the fact that Mossad as a whole seemed to embrace the nickname wholeheartedly (whether out of perverse humor or a complete lack of it, Tim wasn't sure) couldn't hide how much danger Tony and Ziva were actually in.

Unable to look at another report linking this group to an assassination, or a weapons linked to them and used against Americans in Afghanistan or Iraq, or a suspected bribery of a high government official somewhere else in Europe, Tim then tried to do some free writing on his laptop, only to discover that, without his typewriter, he couldn't make the words sing. Trying to type with one hand certainly didn't help, but the laptop just wasn't the same. Even worse, every time he managed a sentence that didn't entirely suck, his thoughts would inevitably jump to the terrible photographs he'd just looked at and his subconscious would then superimpose Tony or Ziva's face on the corpse. He'd promised Abby that he would bring them back … but had it been wrong of him to make such a promise? What if they were already too late?

"Stop thinking, McGee." Gibbs' order caused Tim to jump in surprise and glance across the small aisle to where his boss reclined in the plush leather seat of the executive jet that Deputy Director Vance had acquired for their trip. Sitting next to Gibbs with his hands clasped across his stomach, Ducky stared out the window, an uncomfortable expression on his face.

"Sorry, Boss," Tim said. He closed his laptop and placed it on the seat next to him. "Just worried about…" McGee trailed off, glancing down at his immobilized arm.

"So am I, Tim," Gibbs murmured. He glanced at his watch before glancing in the direction of the cockpit. When Doctor Mallard shifted anxiously at his side, Gibbs gave him a sidelong look. "You okay, Duck?" he asked.

"Not particularly," the doctor replied. "I cannot say that I'm particularly enthusiastic about this trip, Jethro." When Gibbs frowned, Ducky continued. "I work with the dead," he pointed out, "and I desperately do not wish my services to be necessary for Tony or Ziva."

"That makes two of us," Gibbs said with another grimace.

"Three," Tim corrected softly.

"They might need medical attention," Gibbs continued as if McGee hadn't even spoken, "and nobody knows Tony's record like you do."

"Ah," Ducky said, brightening as comprehension flickered across his face. "His lungs. Yes, I can see how that might confuse a Navy corpsman who had never encountered the aftermath of _Y. pestis._ Well done, Jethro." Gibbs smirked.

"Not my first day, Duck." The doctor chuckled, though it sounded a little forced. "Both of you should try to get some sleep," Gibbs suggested in a tone that made it clear it _wasn't _a suggestion. "When we hit the ground, we're not going to stop until we find them." When Tim opened his mouth to reply, his boss pinned him with a look so fierce that McGee leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

He jolted awake sometime later, momentarily confused about his surroundings, and the last vestiges of the nightmare – the usual one, about Jeanne dying, though there was a new wrinkle: she kept changing into Tony or Ziva, so Tim wasn't sure exactly which one had reached the Porsche before it exploded – causing cold sweat to stain his shirt. Ducky was snoring softly, but Gibbs was wide awake, a death grip on the aluminum coffee mug he'd brought along. His eyes were locked on McGee, a sympathetic expression on his face, and Tim looked down.

"We should be landing in thirty minutes or so," Gibbs said after an awkward moment of silence. Tim nodded and rubbed his eyes.

"Does it ever get easier?" he asked softly. Gibbs flinched.

"I can't answer that for you, Tim," the older man replied. "Everybody is wired differently." He looked away, clearly uncomfortable with the topic, but to McGee's surprise, Gibbs continued to speak. "When this is over," he said, "you should take some time off to deal with this."

"I'm okay, Boss," Tim argued. Gibbs glared.

"No," he said, "you're not." He leaned forward, pinning McGee with a too bright gaze. "Trust me on this, Tim. If you don't deal with this, it'll eat you up from the inside." The smile he gave Tim looked more like a grimace. "Don't be like me, Tim," he added, the words instantly bringing to mind memory of Gibbs' drunken comments to Tony in the wake of Paula's funeral so long ago.

"I promise, Boss," McGee whispered, his eyes wide. Gibbs nodded, as if satisfied, and fell back into his seat.

They landed at Bodø Main Air Station, Norway twenty-five minutes later and exited the plane to find no one to greet them. Tim shivered slightly at the unexpected chill in the air, before glancing around in an attempt to get his bearings. It was just a little past midnight local time, and with no moon and the thick cloud cover blotting out the stars, the lack of ambient light made it really hard to see more than a few feet. Gibbs hefted his bag and stalked off to the right, no trace of hesitation in his stride. Ducky shrugged and gave Tim an amused smile before they both fell into step behind the silver-haired ex-sniper.

Barely ten steps away from the plane, the sound of an approaching car caused them to glance to their left. Its lights out, a black SUV slowed to a stop alongside them. A bald but powerfully built African-American man was behind the wheel and he flashed his badge through the window before gesturing for them to get in.

"Sam Hanna," the man said as they clambered into the SUV. "You must be Gibbs."

"I must be," Gibbs replied. "This is Doctor Mallard, our M.E., and Special Agent McGee."

"No offense, Doc," Hanna said with a smirk as he put the truck into gear and accelerated, "but I'm hoping we don't need you."

"Oh, you aren't the only one, Agent Hanna," Ducky replied.

"Hanna." Gibbs frowned. "You're with OSP?" The driver nodded. "Callen's mentioned you once or twice. Said you weren't totally useless."

"Coming from him, that's a hell of a compliment," Hanna remarked with an amused shake of his head. "We've got a platoon of SEALs here on combat standby," he said. "We can be wheels up in ten minutes if our people in the field give the word."

"You'll be going with them?" Gibbs asked, the remark causing Tim to realize that Hanna was wearing dark combat gear with an ease that identified him as ex-military.

"Deputy Director Vance gave me operational command," Hanna said, "since I'm a former SEAL and actually served with some of these guys, so yeah, I'm going in with them."

"I'll need a rifle," Gibbs began, but Hanna was already shaking his head.

"Not gonna happen," the ex-SEAL said flatly. When Gibbs turned his cold stare on him, Hanna smirked. "Callen warned me about that look," he said before abruptly sobering. "Don't take this the wrong way, Gibbs, but you'd be a liability to us in the field." He held up a hand to forestall Gibbs' reply. "I know all about the sniper background," Hanna said, "but you're what? Early, mid fifties? With bum knees and crappy eyes?" Gibbs' glare intensified, but Hanna continued. "Leon gave me command of the field operation and there's no way in hell I'm going to risk my guys by taking a wild card like you on this op."

"Jethro…" Ducky's voice was clearly intended to be mollifying, but Gibbs shot him a dark look before returning his full attention to Hanna.

"These are _my _people we're talking about," he said tightly.

"And I give you my word as a SEAL that I will bring them back," Hanna replied, "but you are _not _going in with us. Period." He braked and turned into an empty parking space outside an unremarkable-looking building. There were a couple of familiar faces lounging next to the door of the structure and McGee frowned.

"Boss," he called out, nodding in the direction of the two Mossad officers he recognized. Gibbs grunted and slid out of the SUV before it came to a complete stop.

"Agent Gibbs," Officer Hadar greeted calmly. He was wearing an outfit similar to what Hanna had on, though there were a few minor differences. At his side, Ariel Livni stood straight, both arms clasped together at the small of his back. He too was wearing the combat fatigues, and the still healing burns and scrapes on his face lent him a dangerous, almost sinister appearance.

"What are you doing here?" Gibbs demanded.

"This is to be a joint operation," Hadar replied calmly. "My director sent a team to assist in retrieving Officer David and Agent DiNozzo, and they are coordinating with your SEALs right now." The smile he flashed didn't have a trace of human warmth. "Surely you did not expect us to idly sit by while one of our own was in danger." Gibbs glanced to Hanna who promptly shrugged.

"I've worked with Mossad before," he admitted before grinning. "But you're _still _not going, Gibbs," he added.

"Yes," Hadar interjected calmly. "I have explicit instructions from Deputy Director Vance to exclude you from field operations."

"These are my people!" Gibbs growled. He balled his hands up into fists and looked like he was on the verge of attacking.

"Officer David is a member of Mossad," Hadar pointed out. Gibbs glared.

"I consider her one of mine," he retorted harshly. To Tim's surprise, Hadar smiled.

"And Mossad considers Agent DiNozzo one of ours," he said, the comment causing Gibbs to rock back on his heels in visible surprise. "I will bring them back, Agent Gibbs," Hadar promised, his voice earnest, before nodding for Livni to follow him. Without another word, the two Mossad officers climbed into the SUV.

"Hanna," Gibbs called out before they could leave. The African-American glanced back. "Callen. Where is he?" The ex-SEAL smiled.

"Already in the field," he replied. "Where'd you think he'd be?" He nodded to the building they stood before. "That's the command center," Hanna said. "You'll be running things from there and will be our eyes in the sky."

"Good luck," Ducky said as Hanna slid behind the wheel.

A moment later, he was gone.

"Boss?" Tim shifted awkwardly, not sure what to say. From the moment he had boarded the plane, he had known that he wouldn't be involved with the actual rescue – the hairline fracture of his collarbone eliminated him from any field ops, even though it felt fine – but he could see the worry and open fear on Gibbs' face over being excluded from the op. The older man clearly felt that he owed Tony and Ziva, and probably thought he was letting them down by staying here instead of going in with the SEALs.

"Come along, Jethro," Ducky instructed softly. "We cannot help them from out here." The doctor pulled the door open and waited.

"Yeah," Gibbs murmured. He shook the moment off and McGee could actually see him firm up his resolve. "Let's go bring our people home."

* * *

**A/N #2:** I have been completely unable to find any real good visual representations of Bodø Main Air Station, Norway, so I have intentionally avoided describing it. In the event that there are some Norwegian fans reading this, I mean no slight ... I just can't seem to locate any reference images. :(


	85. The Widening Gyre, 35: Callen

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: **Rated **M **for language, sexual situations, violence, and the occasional flying monkey man.

Regarding the remarks about the update not showing up on the main page, I suspect it is due to your settings. Unless you specifically state that _ALL _ratings will show up on a main page (the main NCIS fiction page, for example), this site automatically sets the fics at K - T, thus excluding fics with a Mature rating.

The character of G. Callen appears on _NCIS: Los Angeles _(along with Sam Hanna), but for those of you unfamiliar with what the spin-off has established about his character, he apparently grew up in orphanages and foster homes, knowing only his first initial (G.) and his last name. He also has an unrevealed past to Gibbs (probably in 1991, since _everything _Gibbs did in the past was apparently during that year.)

* * *

**Callen**

Nothing good ever came from Russia.

It was a gross exaggeration and he knew it – he could think of several gorgeous female tennis players who almost made this miserable country worth it … not that he'd ever admit to watching tennis around any of his buddies in OSP – but at the moment, as he low crawled through the cold, wet mud on the floor of the forest surrounding the 'logging camp,' NCIS Special Agent G. Callen honestly wished that he hadn't bothered answering the phone when Gibbs called, no matter that he owed the man a dozen times over. The temperature had dipped sharply since the sun went down several hours ago, and the constant drizzle of rain – not enough to be considered _actual _rain, but too much to be just mist – was both distracting and annoying. Why couldn't bad guys headquarter on a beach in the Tropics for a change?

_I hate Russia, _Callen mused bitterly as he wiggled into place alongside his partner for this op, Mossad Officer Michael Rivkin. They had spent the last day and a half circling the target in an attempt to both avoid detection and to determine if their two missing agents were inside. The camp itself was still in the process of being restored to full functionality, with a pair of eighteen wheelers parked alongside one of the two buildings still standing. At least a dozen men were offloading the trailers of the trucks despite the lateness of the hour; several huge stadium lamps illuminated the area and, even at this distance, Callen could hear the distinctive hum of diesel-powered generators.

Rivkin barely moved as Callen neared him, prompting G. – _Geoffrey? _– to momentarily wonder if the Mossad officer had dozed off. He discarded the notion a heartbeat before the Israeli slowly lifted his left hand and pointed. Callen followed the direction of the man's fingers and stared at the clump of dark bushes and fallen trees for a long moment. Finally, he made out a tiny flare of red that was likely a cigarette. He nodded, and Rivkin pointed out another guard to their right. No words were exchanged, nor were any needed, and the Israeli resumed scanning the compound with the night-vision binoculars they'd brought along.

For his part, Callen simply relaxed and studied the camp without bothering to retrieve his own binos from the rucksack currently at the bottom of the tiny hill. He was a veteran of many night ops and knew that human eyes were naturally drawn to motion, so he watched the activity taking place while tensing and relaxing the muscles in his legs at mostly random intervals. Whether it actually helped him keep his limbs from falling asleep or not, he wasn't sure, but it was an old habit that he'd never been able to quite kick.

Rivkin grunted.

Instantly, Callen froze as he tried to locate the source of the Israeli's interest. It took him longer than he cared for, but G. – _Gabriel? _– finally identified a clearly feminine form stalking from one of the buildings toward the parked ATVs. Callen gave Rivkin a glance.

"I know that woman," the Mossad officer murmured. He frowned, lowered the binos for a heartbeat, and then lifted them back in place to resume studying her. "We knew her as Salima Farhan Smith," he added through clenched teeth, "though that _wasn't _her name."

"We?" Callen repeated. He pulled his night-vision monocular out of his pocket and zoomed in on the woman in question. Her complexion and bone structure was similar to that of Officer David's, though this woman's face seemed a little thinner, a little more severe.

"Agent DiNozzo and I," Rivkin said in response. He grimaced as the woman hopped onto the ATV, started it, and accelerated away from the camp. Even if they tried, Callen and Rivkin couldn't reach her in time.

"That's not enough to move on," he pointed out. Rivkin nodded with another frown and G. – _Gavin? _– shifted his attention to the nearest of the guards. "They know what you look like, right?" he asked his partner softly. Despite having been at the man's side for nearly thirty-six hours straight, Callen still wasn't sure what to make of Michael Rivkin. That the man was a skilled operative was undeniable, but the fire in the Mossad officer's eyes, the hate and guilt and fear, was a hairsbreadth away from being terrifying. If Rivkin had been Muslim, Callen would have actually suspected he was a Jihadist intent on martyring himself for the seventy-two virgins, so intense was the man.

What certainly didn't help was how familiar the Israeli was. Callen was convinced that he'd seen the Mossad officer at some point in the recent past but, for the life of him, just couldn't figure out where.

"I do not know," Rivkin replied sharply. He didn't budge from where he crouched, the binoculars held in place as he swept back and forth across the so-called logging camp. From where he knelt, Callen could see how tightly the Israeli was clutching the binos and wondered if they were in danger of being crushed. "We should presume that they do."

"Then I'll take point," Callen decided. He double-checked his clothes before giving Rivkin a quick glance. "I'm trusting you to have my back," he said. The Mossad officer grunted once more, but did not lower the binoculars.

It took nearly an hour for G. – _Greg? _– to reach his target, and another twenty minutes to get into position so his approach would not seem too much of a surprise. He observed the guard for a few more minutes before activating the signal jammer he was carrying in his pocket – just in case the man had a handheld – and climbing to his feet. To the guard's credit, he noticed Callen's approach several steps before expected, but did nothing. That wasn't a surprise, though, not with G. – _Glen? _– appearing to have come from the camp proper.

_"Have you seen Dmitri?" _Callen asked in flawless Russian, picking a name at random. He held his breath when the guard frowned – if this man's name actually _was _Dmitri, then there was going to be a problem.

_"He left with the boss a couple of hours ago," _the guard replied before returning his attention to the woods outside the camp.

_"Dammit," _Callen muttered, feigning annoyance as he drew closer to the man. _"Ivan told me to get him. Something about the woman." _The guard frowned and returned his eyes to Callen.

_"Why?" _the man asked flatly. _"Dmitri doesn't even _like _women."_

_"Then why the hell would he send me after him?" _Callen grumbled, automatically changing his approach. The disgruntled fellow employee being tricked was always a good option.

_"Good question," _the guard replied. He shifted his stance so he was facing Callen completely and leveled his assault rifle. _"It's especially interesting since _I _am Ivan." _His eyes narrowed, the guard trained the barrel of the rifle at Callen's chest. _"And I don't know you."_

_"Do you know my partner?" _Callen asked with a forced smile. He kept his eyes locked on the guards and not on the moving shadow behind the man. _"You know, the guy right behind you?"_

_"Nice try,_" the guard sneered.

_"Isn't it?" _Rivkin asked in a low hiss as he jabbed something into the man's back. Ivan the guard flinched but quickly froze in place when he felt the point of the Israeli's weapon poke into his back. The man's eyes widened with sudden fear and worry, but he managed to keep from panicking. _"We have some questions for you," _the Mossad officer whispered as Callen carefully relieved the Russian of his AKM, _"and whether you get out of this alive depends upon your answers."_

_"All I have to do is scream," _the guard started. Rivkin chuckled darkly.

_"You'll be dead before they can respond," _he said coldly.

_"And we'll be long gone by then," _Callen interjected, glancing toward the illuminated trailers and the men unloading them. They were a good fifty or sixty feet away and so busy that none of them had even noticed the trouble Ivan was in.

_"You have two prisoners," _Rivkin hissed. It was not a question, but a statement of fact, and the guard nodded.

_"The American and the Israeli," _the Russian said quickly. He visibly swallowed. _"They're in the sublevel underneath the first barracks."_

_"You tortured them." _Again, Rivkin wasn't asking and Callen had a terrible feeling that the Israeli was on the verge of violence. Ironically, there wasn't a hint of emotion in the man's voice as he spoke and the lack of emotion on his face made it seem as though he had ice running through his veins.

_"I was following orders!" _Ivan the guard exclaimed in sudden terror. The expression that flashed across Rivkin's face was terrible to behold.

_"That defense did not work for the Nazis," _he said coldly, _"and it will not work for you either."_

Ivan gasped suddenly, his eyes bugging out, and Rivkin covered the man's mouth with his free hand as he plunged his blade into the man's back once more. Callen bit back a curse – he should have seen this coming dammit! – before ejecting the magazine from the AKM and checking the ammo loadout. He slammed the mag back into place before pulling the charging handle back just far enough to see that there was already a round chambered.

"Call it in," Rivkin ordered as he let the dying guard collapse to the ground. Blood was darkening Ivan's shirt and pants, but the Mossad officer slammed the blade downward once more, this time clearly aiming for the man's spinal cord. It was a brutally efficient way to make sure that Ivan the guard wouldn't be able to spring something on them. Callen flinched at the sound of metal against bone before reaching for the signal jammer in his pocket. With his thumb, he turned it off and then pulled the satellite phone from his rucksack. It was already active and he could see that they had a strong signal, so he depressed the transmit button and spoke in clear, unaccented Russian once more.

_"Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair, so that I may climb the golden stair_._"_

"Go for the precious cargo," Rivkin said as he wiped the blade of his large knife – it was almost a machete – on the dead man's jacket. He rose to his feet in a single, fluid motion, but Callen held up a hand for him to wait while he listened for a response from his call.

_"Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin,"_ came Sam's distinctive voice over the line. A moment later, a series of beeps sounded that Callen quickly translated from Morse code. He glanced up and met Rivkin's cold eyes.

"Five minutes," he said. The Mossad officer grimaced, tightening his death grip on the machete and glaring in the direction of the barracks. "As soon as the shooting starts," Callen said, pulling a pair of IR chem.-lights from his cargo pockets, "we make for the precious cargo, secure it, and wait for exfiltration." Rivkin grunted and Callen bit back a sigh at the death he saw in the Israeli's eyes. For a heartbeat, G. – _Gerard?_ – actually felt sorry for any of the poor bastards who got in between Rivkin and his goal.

But the moment passed.

They were moving almost before the trio of Osprey's roared overheard, keeping low and relying on the infrared chem.-lights clipped to their tactical harnesses to identify them as friendlies to the SEALs aboard. Gunfire exploded around them as they darted toward the barracks, and Callen instantly recognized the chatter of M240 machine guns being fired from backs of the circling Ospreys. He pushed aside the flash of fear as bullets ripped apart the ground in front of and beside him as he and Rivkin sprinted toward the door to the barracks. The men unloading the trailer were caught completely by surprise, and at least half of them fell to the 7.62mm rounds fired from the M240s before the rest scrambled for cover or weapons of their own. One of the men saw Callen and Rivkin racing toward them and stupidly gestured for them to hurry up, clearly thinking that he was addressing allies. His eyes widened the moment he realized that they were not friendly.

And, in that second of hesitation, Callen shot him.

Rivkin scooped up the dead man's AKM without even breaking stride, and they hit the door leading into the barracks running. Another storm of gunfire ripped by them as a quartet of heavily armed figures – SEALs or a Mossad Kidon team, Callen couldn't tell – materialized out of the darkness and assaulted forward, their weapons ripping into a pair of defenders that Callen hadn't even seen. He gave the black-clad figures a quick nod before following Rivkin through the doorway.

Nothing could prepare him for what they found inside.

* * *

**A/N #2:** And you might notice a subtle reference in this chapter to Ziva's remark in "Agent Afloat" to Tony about having orders and following them regardless of how one feels about said orders. To be perfectly honest, I found that remark to be utterly ridiculous coming from the mouth of an Israeli Jew and showed an appalling lack of historical context on the part of the showrunners. It was, IMO, the only misstep in an otherwise excellent episode (was probably my favorite in season 6 ... although given my well documented dislike of that season, that's probably not saying much.)


	86. The Widening Gyre, 36: Jethro

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: **Rated **M **for language, sexual situations, violence, and the random mention of Tali David.

* * *

**Jethro**

He _hated _waiting.

The command center was too small for effective pacing, with a flat panel video screen barely a third of the size of the one in MTAC on the far wall and two small communication stations occupied by a pair of men who spoke accented English. McGee had assumed command of the two men without having to be told to do so, and Ducky had staked out a small corner near the back of the converted sub-basement where he reclined on an uncomfortable metal chair with a book in his hand. To anyone unfamiliar with him, he would have looked completely unworried, and appeared to be the picture of gentlemanly poise and charm.

But Gibbs wasn't fooled.

For his part, Jethro didn't even try to hide his frustration or worry. In the twenty-four hours they had been here in Norway, he had spent probably half of that time on the phone, trying to bully his way onto the SEAL assault team for the inevitable rescue assault. Jenny had refused to answer his calls, though whether it was because she was in LA for Bill Decker's funeral or because she just wasn't interested in talking to him after their uncomfortable last conversation Gibbs wasn't sure. With Vance acting director and simply unwilling to change his mind, Jethro had seriously considered calling the SecNav before deciding against it. Instead, he'd had Abby forward him a copy of Hanna's service record to determine if the ex-SEAL was actually capable of accomplishing this task. What he found reassured him somewhat; Hanna had received both a Silver Star and a Purple Heart while in Afghanistan for going back into a firefight to rescue an injured comrade –the resulting injury had ended his military career and brought him to NCIS – so the man truly embodied the 'leave no one behind' mindset of the SEALs which eased Gibbs' fears slightly.

It _still _wasn't the same as being there himself though.

The last communication they'd had with Callen earlier in the day had been promising. After having circled the camp for entirely too long, he and Rivkin were planning to make a move to get confirmation that Tony and Ziva were held within. Hanna's SEALs and the Mossad officers under Hadar's command had taken to the air in extended range special operations Ospreys and, even now, lurked in the area around the so-called logging camp. The moment Callen gave the green light, the Ospreys would take them in, but Hanna had made it clear that he would not put the rescue teams in danger unless he had confirmation that the two missing agents were actually there. Most of them probably didn't even think that Tony or Ziva were still alive.

Jethro knew better.

His gut had been twisting and snarling ever since McGee put the 'logging camp' up on the screen in D.C., and Gibbs knew without a shadow of a doubt that his people were there. He couldn't quite explain why, but the gut hadn't failed him before. No, he corrected darkly, it hadn't failed but he sure as hell had. Even before Tony and Ziva left D.C. the last time, Gibbs had known something bad was coming. He'd known and done absolutely nothing about it. And look how that turned out.

"You need some rest, Jethro." Ducky's soft voice caught Gibbs in the middle of another mental rant at his failure and Jethro froze in mid-step before shooting the doctor a glare.

"I'll rest when I'm dead," he retorted more sharply than he intended to. It was this place's fault. With nothing to do but wait, Gibbs had virtually inhaled his entire personal supply of coffee, leaving him to either suffer through caffeine withdrawal or seek out some of the murky brown water that the locals served. So far, he hadn't bothered, mostly because that would require him to leave this command center. He was entering hour five without caffeine and it was beginning to show.

"An admirable sentiment," a new voice called out from the door, causing Gibbs to half turn in surprise. His eyes narrowed as he took in the newcomer, wondering when Eli David had snuck onto the air station and why he hadn't been informed. The Mossad director was dressed impeccably, but the dark circles under his eyes and haunted expression on his face reminded Gibbs too much of himself the last time he'd looked in the mirror.

"Director," he greeted cautiously, all the while fighting the urge to go for his Sig. The wary manner in which the Israeli returned the nod seemed to imply that David was suffering the same flare of distrust and, for a moment, Jethro felt like laughing. He could only imagine how they must look to others, almost circling one another like rival wolves looking for a weakness. "I wasn't told you were coming," Gibbs said tightly.

"Of course not," David replied, his eyes narrowed and his smile forced. "The director of Mossad does not advertise his movements." Gibbs nodded in understanding of that – this man probably had more enemies both in and out of Israel than Jethro could even fathom – and David shifted his attention fractionally to where Ducky reclined. "You must be Doctor Mallard," he said, taking a step closer to the medical examiner and offering his hand. "Eli David," he added.

Ducky replied in slow, broken Hebrew as he stood and shook Eli's hand. The surprise that appeared on the Mossad director's face was fleeting and gone nearly before Gibbs saw it, but was quickly replaced with a warm smile that robbed the Israeli man of decades. He replied in the same language, but did so slowly, in obvious deference to Doctor Mallard's lack of proficiency. It didn't surprise Jethro that the director liked Ducky – _everyone _liked Ducky; it was part of his charm – but Gibbs still kept a careful eye on David. If even half of what Ziva had said about this man was true, no one on this air base was safe.

"Boss!" McGee's exclamation caused Jethro to almost jump in surprise – damn, he needed some coffee! – and half turn to where Tim had evicted one of the two men manning the computer station. From the way his McGee's eyes had widened and the way he was pressing the headphone to his ear, something important had happened. At Gibbs' look, Tim quickly explained. "Ground team just contacted the assault team with confirmation! They're there!"

Someone drew in a sharp breath – Gibbs wasn't sure if it was him or David – and Jethro heard Ducky whisper a relieved, "Thank God" under his breath. McGee glanced down up the computer screen and frowned. He shrugged his arm out of the sling, flexed the fingers, nodded to himself, and began typing at a blistering pace. The two communications technicians exchanged looks.

"What are you doing?" the senior of the duo asked. His eyes widened. "You are hacking into a satellite!" he realized with visible horror. "I cannot let you-"

"Thank you," Director David interrupted quickly, his voice sharp and cutting, "but that will be all." He pinned the man with a dark look, but, to Gibbs' surprise, the communications technician didn't back down.

"But I cannot-"

"Thank you," David repeated in a low, dangerous tone that could freeze the sun, "but that will be all."

"Maybe you two should step out," Gibbs suggested, his own face hard, "and take a break."

"I could certainly use some coffee," the younger man interjected. He was already inching toward the door.

"So could I," Jethro replied. He locked eyes with the older man and did not blink.

"Coffee sounds good," the man said after a moment. The two were gone a moment later.

"Got it!" Tim said, pride in his voice. The flat panel video screen snapped on, just in time to catch a real-time transmission of the initial Osprey assault. Gibbs frowned at the poor resolution and choppy image, but didn't bother asking McGee to clean it up since he doubted the satellite was any good in the first place. It was built by Russians during the last years of the Cold War, which was synonymous with utter crap.

"Well done, Agent McGee," Director David said. "I did not think anyone capable of hacking into a satellite so quickly." He sounded impressed.

"I kind of cheated," the younger man admitted. "Piggy-backed the NSA's signal and…" Jethro frowned and glanced briefly at the younger man.

"McGee."

"Sorry, Boss." The small command center was silent apart from the hum of machinery as all four of them – Gibbs, Ducky, Tim and David – watched the SEALs and Kidon unit assault the so-called logging camp. Jethro began opening and closing his fingers in frustration as he waited. He glanced once in McGee's direction, noting with approval that Tim had unhooked the headphones and turned the external speakers on.

At his side, Eli David shifted anxiously, the motion drawing Gibbs' attention. Their eyes met and Jethro was surprised to realize that the Israeli man was on the verge of hysteria. In his years as a criminal investigator, Gibbs had seen this far too often and it immediately reminded him of a kidnapping case he'd closed before Mike Franks had retired. Then, like now, the father – a Navy captain – had blamed himself and actually been partially responsible for putting his daughter in danger in the first place by pushing her toward goals that were more his than hers. Franks hadn't been surprised that the father had committed suicide shortly after the teenage girl's body had turned up, but for Jethro, it had been an eye-opening experience. He'd actually been glad that the kidnappers refused to give up without a fight.

"Geppetto, this is Pinocchio," Callen's voice echoed from the speakers, distorted but still clear. "We have Hansel and Gretel and are leaving the Big Bad Wolf's lair." At any other time, Gibbs would have rolled his eyes at the code-names – they were entirely unnecessary thanks to the encrypted radios being used by the SEALs, despite Callen's paranoia about being overheard – but at the moment, it was all Jethro could do to just keep breathing. They were alive. By God, they were still alive. He glanced at Ducky and found the Scotsman beaming through eyes that looked wet.

"Acknowledged, Pinocchio," Tim replied in a shaky voice. "How are they?" he asked a moment later.

"Doc Swineheart recommends you have a trauma team standing by," came the harsh response. "We'll stabilize them as best as we can en route, but … just have the trauma team standing by." The giddiness that had threatened to overwhelm Gibbs flickered and died when he heard the edge in Callen's voice. Jethro drew in a breath to speak, but Eli David beat him to it. The Mossad director took a quick step toward the communications station and depressed the transmit button.

"Bayonet," he snapped. Amit Hadar's reply was almost instantaneous.

"This is Bayonet." His face a riot of anger and fury, David growled something in Hebrew that caused Ducky to narrow his eyes. The Mossad director then turned away and stormed toward the door where he exited the command center without saying another word.

"Bring them home, McGee, and contact the base hospital," Gibbs ordered before giving Mallard a telling look. The doctor frowned.

"He said _scorched earth_," Ducky said. "I suspect that means-"

"No prisoners," Gibbs finished. A part of him knew he should protest what could easily be considered a war crime but these bastards had hurt Tony and Ziva. None of them deserved to live. If he'd been on the ground, he suspected he might be tempted to put down some of these mad dogs himself.

He ducked out of the command center several minutes later, abandoning McGee to oversee the rest of the extraction process and Ducky to speak with the Navy corpsmen attached to the SEAL team. Bare steps away from the door, lurking underneath an overhang, Eli David glared at the darkened runway, puffing away at a foul-smelling cigarette. He didn't even look up at Jethro's exit.

"Before she died," David said without preamble, "my daughter, Tali, made me promise to stop this filthy habit but I always turn to it when I am … angry." Gibbs frowned at the unfamiliar name, but decided against interrupting. "She was the best of us," Eli murmured. "I was too busy with my career, Ziva already had her heart set on joining Mossad and Ari … well, I never truly knew him as well as I thought I did, but all of us loved Tali." The man's voice was thick with shame. "Oh, how she would hate me now," David said in a strained voice. He glanced in Gibbs' direction. "You know what I ordered?"

"Yep." Jethro leaned up against the wall and crossed his arms.

"And you do not protest?"

"Nope." Gibbs grimaced at the surprised expression on the Mossad director's face. "The world's better off without them."

"It is better off without a great many people," David replied. He dropped the cigarette to the ground and stepped on it. "Including my son, Ari," he added after a moment of silence. When Gibbs didn't reply, the Israeli man sighed. "I know that Ziva killed him," he said. "As a case officer, she had standing orders to do whatever was necessary to deal with the situation should her asset go rogue, but I did not think she would go so far as to shooting him." Jethro tensed, unsure where this conversation was going or how he should respond even as he began wondering how David had found out. "She did not tell me, if that is what you are thinking," the Mossad director said, "and for a time, I _was _furious at you over his death …"

"And now?" David snorted at the question.

"Now I have had time to realize the enormity of my errors," he said. The director of Mossad sighed heavily, suddenly looking decades older than Jethro knew him to be. "It is a terrible thing," Ziva's father remarked softly, "to realize that one has failed as a father."

"It is," Gibbs agreed. They were silent, both lost in the memories of the family they had lost.

"I cannot bury another daughter," Eli said softly.

"Neither can I," Jethro replied. David nodded in understanding and forced a smile on his face.

"Tell me about Agent DiNozzo," he instructed. "Is he a good man? Is he worthy of my daughter?" Gibbs snorted ... and promptly realized that his counterpart was deadly serious. He drew in a deep breath, not entirely sure how to respond. Honestly, he wasn't sure if the two were in this for more than just sex – they'd started their affair when he was in Mexico, after all, and then Tony left after he came back – and with DiNozzo's history …

"He can be an immature jackass at times," Gibbs finally said, "but when the crap hits the fan, there's _nobody_ better to have at your back." David nodded and tapped out another cigarette from his already crumpled pack.

They stood there, just outside the command center, swapping stories about their children – surrogate or otherwise – for long minutes while they waited for the Ospreys to return. That it gave them something to think about beyond the condition that Tony and Ziva would be in was never far from Gibbs' mind, but he ignored the growing knot of worry in his stomach and concentrated on retelling how he first met then Baltimore Detective Tony DiNozzo. Eli listened quietly, nodding at the appropriate moments, and offered up his own unlikely tale involving some of Ziva's earliest escapades, but his eyes never truly wavered from the dark runway.

Gibbs wasn't sure how long they had been standing there when his cell phone buzzed. He frowned before digging it out. At sight of the caller ID – Leon Vance – he felt his stomach lurch. Ignoring Eli's curious glance, Jethro flipped the phone open.

"Yeah?" he answered.

"I need you and McGee on a plane as soon as possible," Vance said sharply. Jethro swallowed – he wasn't going to like this. "It's Jenny," Leon continued.

"What about her?" Gibbs demanded. He knew the answer even before he asked.

"She's dead."

* * *

**A/N #2:** As much as I didn't care for the character of Jenny Shepard in seasons 4 and 5, I cannot deny that I really liked "Judgment Day" and the wicked awesome way they framed that diner shootout in Part 1. Because of my appreciation for how they directed her death scene, I didn't even try to top it. It was just too perfect.


	87. The Widening Gyre, 37: Tony

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: **Rated **M **for language, sexual situations, violence, and a drugged-up Tony.

* * *

**Tony**

It hurt just to breathe.

He swam in and out of consciousness, aware only of Ziva's warm presence at his back and the hopeful, soothing nonsense she kept whispering in his ear. The feel of her uninjured arm wrapped around his chest anchored him in the here and now, and Tony fought through the agonizing pain pounding through his body in a desperate attempt to remain alert. She deserved someone stronger than him, someone who wasn't a burden and could actually carry his weight for a change, someone who didn't put her in a situation like this in the first place. He tried to apologize once more, but the words stalled in his throat.

How long they sat there, huddled together on the cold, damp floor, Tony didn't know. Ziva did what she could for his injuries – no small task with her own broken arm – but the accumulated pain and abuse from over the last several days made it increasingly difficult for him to keep his eyes open. And Ziva's soft caresses carried him gently into unconsciousness once more.

The sound of distant gunfire roused him an eternity later, and Tony pried his eyes open to discover that Ziva had apparently moved him while he was out. He found himself propped up against the wall, no longer directly in front of the door, while she awkwardly crouched in the blind spot beside the entrance to their rudimentary cell, her broken arm hanging limply at her side. Even as he struggled to make his eyes focus on her, Tony could tell that she was moving stiffly and hesitantly, as if she were in excruciating pain but was trying to ignore it. If there was going to be a fight, she would not last long, not in her current condition. So Tony tried to force himself to his feet so he could help.

Too late, he remembered that his arms and legs were broken.

When he opened his eyes next, he realized that he was on his back and black-clad figures were swarming around him, securing him to what felt like a portable stretcher. Panic started to set in and Tony struggled to free himself, crying out in pain when his broken arms connected with the hard floor. One of the figures loomed closer, his features resolving slowly into someone DiNozzo actually recognized.

"Calm down, Tony," Michael Rivkin said. "We're here to rescue you." DiNozzo forced a smile on his face.

"Lil short for a stormtrooper," he slurred, the remark causing Mike to laugh out. The Israeli man nodded to one of the other mystery figures and, a moment later, Tony felt something prick his neck. Instantly, the pain that had been his constant companion for far too long began to recede. "Ziva," he called out.

But there was no answer before he tumbled into darkness.

He opened his eyes sometime later, slowly realizing that he was still strapped to the stretcher and that it was secured aboard what felt like a helicopter. A loud buzz echoed around him – he finally recognized it as propellers; this had to be an Osprey, he decided – and his teeth rattled with the jarring vibrations that shook him around. Tony was unable to keep from groaning and his drug-addled brain labored to translate the voices above him into something that made sense.

"-high tolerance to painkillers," Michael was saying to someone DiNozzo couldn't see. "He needs something stronger."

_Ziva, _Tony tried to say, but his lips would not move. Rivkin leaned over him.

"Relax, Tony," the Mossad officer said as he injected something else into DiNozzo's arm. "You're safe now."

But was Ziva? Tony tried to verbalize the question once more but instead, his eyes fluttered shut as the drugs took effect.

The rest of the flight was a nightmarish trip of distorted faces and abnormal noises that would have been right at home in one of those weird as hell Tim Burton movies that Abby liked so much. Despite the drugs he'd been given, Tony kept waking every time the Osprey hit turbulence. Michael was always there when his eyes opened, along with some other guy that DiNozzo vaguely recognized as having seen with Gibbs once or twice. He made an inarticulate sound – it was supposed to be _Ziva _but came out as nothing more than a grunt – and Rivkin glanced down to look at him. Tony's expression must have revealed his growing fear because he could see the moment that comprehension dawned upon Michael's face.

"She's safe, Tony," Rivkin whispered before pointing out another secured stretcher and an unmoving form atop it. Amit Hadar sat alongside Ziva, but made no effort to touch her and instead manipulated some sort of electronic device that Tony didn't care to identify. His eyes were locked on the blanket covering Ziva's body and relief washed through him the moment he saw the steady rise of her chest. She was alive.

Alive.

"Sleep now," Michael ordered. "I'll watch over her."

Tony exhaled deeply and let his eyes slide shut.

He woke several more times, once when they landed – the Osprey touched down _hard _– and once when they were transferring him from the ambulance to the hospital. Later, he would have vague, incomplete memories of white walls, incomprehensible voices speaking gibberish that didn't sound at all like English, and the feel of a soothing hand upon his forehead. The dull ache in one of his arms suddenly spiked into pure agony and he could feel the fractured bones being manipulated. Mercifully, he passed out once more.

His dreams were shot through with blood-soaked faces who stared at him accusingly – Kate, with the bullet hole in her forehead; the girl Nastya, now without a face since he never saw how she died; Dana with bright, arterial blood spurting from horrific chest injuries and soaking her hair; Paula, with her face seared nearly beyond recognition – but none of them were as bad as the blank, lifeless expression he saw on Ziva's face as one of Drantyev's men held her down to rape her. Tony tried to cry out, tried to stop her assailant but, to his horror, the man turned to look at him.

And Tony stared directly into his own face.

He woke screaming, unable to move and so terrified that he thought his heart was going to beat its way out of his chest. It took him bare seconds to realize that his arms and legs were immobilized, and that restraining straps across his chest kept him from getting up. Someone touched his face and Tony recoiled in fear.

"Tony!" Donald Mallard stood next to the bed, his eyes wide and an agonized expression on his face. "You're safe! Calm down…"

"Ducky?" Tony wet his lips and looked around quickly. He recognized the unmistakable décor of a hospital intensive care unit and reflexively shivered as memories from his fight with the plague came flooding back. "Ziva?" he asked through lips that felt like they belonged to someone else. His tongue felt like sandpaper.

"She's in X-Ray at the moment," Ducky replied. He tentatively placed a hand on Tony's shoulder and DiNozzo drew in a shaky breath. He tried to will his heart to slow down, but the traitorous organ ignored him. "You're going to be fine, Tony," Doctor Mallard said calmly, "and so will Ziva." Tony's eyes shot open.

"Director Shepard!" he hissed suddenly. "In danger!" Ducky's expression seemed to crumple and, through the drugs that fogged his mind, Tony realized what that had to mean.

Jennifer Shepard was dead.

He fell back into his bed, tuning out Ducky's words of comfort and staring at the ceiling without actually seeing it. All Tony could think about was Drantyev's questions about the director and how he told the man whatever he wanted to know to make the pain stop. And now, she was dead, dead because of him and his weaknesses, dead because he wasn't good enough or smart enough or strong enough.

"He is awake?" The unmistakable sound of Eli David's voice pulled Tony out of his rapidly deteriorating thought processes and he turned a lethargic eye toward the man. Ziva's father looked horrible, with dark rings underneath his eyes and a tangible air of exhaustion hanging over him. He looked to be on the verge of collapsing himself, but the hardness in his eyes was still there, even if the lights from the ICU were forming a full body bluish halo around the man. Under this light, Eli almost looked like a Smurf. A very tall, very angry, very mean Smurf, but still. Tony closed his eyes and tried to push past the ridiculous urge to giggle.

"He is," Ducky replied. "Although I do not know for how much longer."

"Where's your beard?" Tony asked with a raspy chuckle that almost turned into a sob. "Are you here to kill me, Papa Smurf?" Eli gave Ducky a questioning look, and the medical examiner shrugged.

"Adverse reaction to painkillers," he said before frowning. "I thought you were with Ziva."

"I was," Eli answered before shaking his head. "She ordered me to make sure that Tony is intact."

"I'm not," DiNozzo pointed out, the words slurring despite his best efforts otherwise. He looked away from Papa Smurf and stared at the ceiling.

"Can you give me a few moments with Agent DiNozzo, Doctor?" Eli's question made Tony smile.

"Yeah," he said. "Don't want no witnesses." His vision swam out of focus once more, and DiNozzo let his eyes close.

"Anthony." The voice pulled him back out of unconsciousness, and Tony opened his eyes to find Eli leaning over him, a concerned expression on the Mossad director's face. "Do you need me to summon a doctor?" They were alone, Tony realized. He hadn't even heard Ducky leave.

"Are you going to kill me?" he asked calmly. David's eyes widened in what could only be surprise and he frowned.

"Of course not," the Israeli man replied. "Why would you even ask such a thing?"

"Deserve it," Tony murmured, closely his eyes once again. "Hurt Ziva…"

"You did no such thing," Eli snapped. "Look at me, Anthony." The tone was so reminiscent of Gibbs' that Tony obeyed without hesitation. "The men that … assaulted my daughter are dead." David's face darkened. "Or soon will be," he added. "You are not responsible for anything that happened to her."

In response, Tony closed his eyes and let himself slip back into the fugue that beckoned. Part of him knew that Eli was correct, that he really couldn't be blamed for what had happened, but the tight knot of guilt that twisted his stomach into a pretzel was too intense to ignore. If he hadn't sent her that stupid postcard, she wouldn't have been tempted to join him. This was all his fault. Just like Director Shepard's death, or Kate's death, or Dana's or Paula's or …

The list went on for a very long time.

Doctors filled the room sometime later to check up on him, increasing the dosage of his painkillers which in turn made things even … blurrier than before. Tony lost track of what was real and what wasn't so he just let himself go with the flow – the dancing nurses on the wall approved, as did the three-headed doctor, though they didn't bother saying 'Ni!' during their examination of him and seemed unaffected when he started babbling 'it' just to see what would happen. Ducky's disembodied head floated into the room a little bit later, along with Imhotep from the remake of _The Mummy _starring Brendan Fraser and that really cute British chick whose name was totally eluding him at the moment. They chatted with Papa Smurf for a while, though Tony had no idea how long they spoke as they seemed to randomly teleport across the room every time he closed his eyes. Imhotep vanished – Tony didn't see the puff of sand, dammit; he had been looking forward to that effect – and then reappeared later with a wheelchair.

Ziva was in the chair.

Oddly enough, she had grown a white beard since the last time he saw her, and Tony couldn't help but to stare at it with wide eyes. Eventually, he decided that his reputation could survive him being involved with a circus freak, but wasn't sure how she had managed to conceal this genetic abnormality for so long. At least it explained why she took so long in the bathroom every morning. He wondered if she had a tail too. And did Gibbs know that she was follicly challenged?

"Do you have a tail?" he asked, his words slurring into incoherence. Ziva's eyes widened slightly and she glanced briefly toward Ducky's head … which had grown a body while Tony wasn't looking! The doctor's lips moved but the noises coming out of him really didn't make any sense. "I don't mind," Tony continued before frowning. "Though how did you hide it when we had sex?" Someone laughed – it was either Papa Smurf or Imhotep, Tony thought, though he couldn't quite tell which one.

"I do not have a tail, Tony," Ziva told him. Her mouth barely moved as she spoke, but she didn't look angry. Instead, she leaned closer and placed her lips upon his temple. "Sleep, Tony," she told him. "I will be here when you wake."

So Tony closed his eyes and slept.

* * *

**A/N #2:** Whoo hoo! Stoned Tony!


	88. The Widening Gyre, 38: Jethro

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: **Rated **M **for language, sexual situations, violence, and random mentions of Kate.

* * *

**Jethro**

He was really getting too old for this.

The muscles in his lower back were burning and his knees felt like they had been dipped into acid, but Gibbs ground his teeth together and tightened his grip on his Sig. Three steps in front of him, crouched just beside the door leading into the suite their target had been residing in for the last three days, was Sam Hanna. The dark-skinned ex-SEAL glanced once to Callen – who was on the other side of the door – before momentarily shifting his attention to Gibbs and offering a series of rapid hand signals. Jethro nodded in comprehension of the silent report: there were five targets on the other side of the door, all heavily armed but showing no sign that they knew about the coming assault.

Tracking the woman they now knew as Svetlana Chernytskya after Jenny … after Director Shepard's murder had been surprisingly easy. Even before they landed in Los Angeles, Gibbs had known where the woman was staying and how many men she had at her disposal. Not from any supernatural insight into how she thought (as Abby suspected) or even any inside knowledge from the covert ops he and … Jenny had conducted over a decade ago, but rather from the keen eye of a grizzled veteran who shouldn't have even been in the States.

"I've got eyes on the bitch who killed your director, Probie," Mike Franks had said without preamble the moment Jethro answered the phone. "Westin Bonaventure Hotel, Los Angeles. Get your ass over here."

The decision for Callen and Hanna to accompany him and McGee to Los Angeles from Norway had been Leon Vance's call, not Gibbs', but the speed in which the two managed to arrange back-up before they even landed proved that it was a good call. Jethro wasn't sure what they had on the LAPD SWAT team that allowed them to talk the over-aggressive LEOs into following their lead, but it worked even better than the angry glares that Gibbs would have sent the men. He suspected it involved the chief of police, strippers and goats.

_Good one, Boss, _his conscience murmured. Gibbs tried to ignore how much it sounded like Tony.

At Hanna's silent order, the SWAT breaching team surged past Jethro and slammed into the door of the suite. It exploded inward, shattering under the impact of their portable battering ram, and the six LAPD officers continued into the room, bellowing orders and brandishing their weapons. Almost instantly, the suite erupted into chaos, with the members of Chernytskya's protection detail scrambling for their weapons. Guns barked, glass shattered and men began crying out, some in pain, some in fury. Callen and Hanna followed the SWAT officers in, the shotguns they'd acquired from somewhere at the ready, but Gibbs shook his head when McGee gave him a questioning look. Jethro knew that they weren't needed to secure the suite.

And besides, something wasn't right.

His gut twisted and snarled, clamoring for him to push past the rage and sadness and despair surrounding Jen … Director Shepard's death and put the pieces together. A bullet fired by one of the Russians inside the suite whizzed through the doorway and narrowly missed his head, smashing into the wall he was crouching beside, but Gibbs barely reacted, despite McGee's startled gasp. Instead, Jethro looked to his right, his eyes focusing on the elevator before sliding to the closed stairwell doors. Stairs that led to the roof.

And the helicopter pad.

He was on his feet and darting toward the door before he actually realized that he was moving. It all made sense now. Chernytskya had already shown that she had no problem sacrificing the people who worked for her like pawns on a chessboard, so leaving five men to die in order to conceal her escape was something she wouldn't hesitate to do.

Gibbs hit the door at a run, barely slowing down before he began taking the stairs two or three at a time. The sound of McGee at his back almost made him smile, especially when he realized that Tim hadn't even bothered asking why they were heading for the roof. It was exactly how Tony would have reacted back in the halcyon days before Jethro's Mexican vacation.

He pushed away the thought; right now, he couldn't let himself think about Tony. Or Ziva. And especially not Jenny.

They reached the rooftop access door to the helipad and Gibbs gave Tim a quick look, noting with some approval that the younger man was barely breathing hard. The weight McGee had lost during his undercover assignment had slowly been replaced with muscle, though Tim still looked deceptively unfit, a fact he had used to his advantage several times in the weeks before this entire Domino fiasco self-destructed around them. He nodded quickly in response to Jethro's glance and readied his Sig. Drawing in a deep breath, Gibbs kicked the door open and sprang forward.

A civilian helicopter was on the helipad, its rotors spinning as a trio of figures – one of which was a woman – began a hunched walk toward the aircraft. The pilot of the chopper caught sight of Gibbs and McGee, and quickly pointed them out. Instantly, two of the three walking toward the helicopter spun around, producing submachine guns and swinging them around to get a clear shot.

Gibbs didn't hesitate.

His first round took the leftmost shooter high in the chest, causing the man to stagger back into Chernytskya and knocking her off balance. She stumbled before tripping over something and falling to the ground. Jethro's second shot slammed into the same shooter's shoulder, spinning him around, even as his partner knelt and sprayed wildly with his MP-5. Bullets ripped into the roof and the door, but were too poorly aimed to do anything apart from sending Gibbs and McGee scrambling for cover in opposite directions. Out of the corner of his eye, Jethro could see Tim throw himself into a sprint along the roof, firing rapidly with his Sig as he ran which drew the attention of the second shooter. It was a dangerous decision on McGee's part – and exactly what DiNozzo would have done, dammit – but Gibbs took advantage of the shooter's momentary distraction by putting a round through the man's temple. The shooter toppled, his finger still tight on the trigger of his MP-5, and bullets punched through the helicopter's plastic door. The pilot jerked and twitched as 9mm rounds tore into him and splattered the cockpit with crimson.

By the time that Jethro arrived at the chopper, Tim had already reached it and was cuffing Svetlana Chernytskya with practiced ease. At a glance, Gibbs could tell that the first shooter was as dead as the second one; Jethro's initial bullet looked to have hit the man directly in the heart. The pilot was still alive but unconscious, and Jethro pulled the chopper door open so he could shut down the helicopter's engines.

"You must be Special Agent Gibbs," Chernytskya said the moment the rotors stopped moving. Tim finished cuffing her before dragging her to her feet. "I must congratulate you on your quick thinking," she continued with a wolfish smile and a thick Russian accent. "Freezing my assets to prevent my escape was inspired." Jethro gave her a long look that betrayed none of his thoughts even as he wondered who was truly behind what she had just revealed. It sounded like something Mossad might do, but he wasn't sure if they had the resources to accomplish such a task in so little time.

"You are under arrest for the murder of Jennifer Shepard," he began coldly. Chernytskya laughed.

"Do you have even a shred of proof that I was involved?" she mocked. "I will be out of the country within the week." Gibbs narrowed his eyes.

And the back of Chernytskya's head exploded.

Time seemed to slow down as blood splattered across Tim's face. For the span of a heartbeat, Jethro was back on the rooftop where Kate had died, watching her begin her slow fall while Tony stared in horrified disbelief, his own face smeared with his partner's blood. The sensation of déjà vu was almost too much to handle but old instincts kicked in and Gibbs' mind screamed: _Sniper!_ He sprang forward, tackling the startled McGee and taking the younger man to the ground so they could seek cover. They kept low as they scrambled toward the door access.

But no other shots came.

"Boss," McGee hissed after several long minutes. His eyes were wide and his face was still wet with Chernytskya's blood.

"We weren't the target," Gibbs growled in response to the unasked question. He pulled his cell out of his pocket and dialed Callen's number, noting that McGee reached for his own phone at the same time. "Chernytskya is dead," he said the moment it was answered. We've got three hostiles down on the roof, one wounded, no friendlies down."

"Right," Callen replied. He sounded distracted. "LAPD is investigating reports of a rifle shot…"

"Boss." McGee pushed his phone toward Gibbs, his mouth set in a grim line. There, on the small screen of the device, was a zoomed in satellite image of a sniper atop a nearby building. The resolution wasn't the greatest, but the image was sharp enough for Jethro to identify the man with the rifle, no matter that he was wearing a LAPD SWAT uniform.

Michael Rivkin.

"I'll call you back," Gibbs said to Callen before snapping his phone shut. "Who sent this?" he demanded.

"No idea, Boss," Tim replied. "The number is blocked." Jethro shook his head in disgust before dialing another number on his cell.

"I wanted her alive," Gibbs snapped the moment the call connected without waiting for a greeting.

"We all want things we cannot have," Eli David retorted coldly. "The evidence we had on her was circumstantial at best and none of it would hold up in any court, especially an American one."

"So you just decided it would be easier to kill her?" Jethro demanded.

"I did," the Mossad director replied, "and so did your government." Gibbs blinked in surprise at the comment. "This operation was fully sanctioned by the appropriate organizations." Without another word, Eli ended the call. Jethro gave the phone a dark look before snapping it shut and stuffing it in his pocket.

"Dammit," he muttered. He glared at the unmoving corpses arrayed around the helicopter and blew out a frustrated breath.

Nearly three hours passed before they were finally able to leave the hotel. Callen quickly volunteered to fly the civilian helicopter to the impound facility despite the blood inside, and, as the senior-most agent on-site, Gibbs agreed, mostly to avoid listening to the younger man complain for hours on end about how he much he hated police work that didn't involve getting shot at or pretending to be someone else. The SWAT officers were still hopped up on adrenaline and too excited over their success in the one-sided firefight to be of much use, and Jethro found himself relying heavily on McGee to close down the crime scene.

"I take it you got the bitch," Mike Franks said from where he leaned against his rental car as soon as Jethro stepped onto the street outside the hotel. Gibbs gave his old boss a frown.

"We're going to need to ask you some questions, Mike," he pointed out. "About your involvement."

"Shepard called me," Franks groused as he lit a cigarette. "We did some legwork, then ended up at that diner. You know the rest."

"I'll need an official statement, Mike. Something better than that." When Franks narrowed his eyes and donned his usual mulish look, Jethro crossed his arms. "Or I could haul you in for impeding a federal investigation."

"You'd do that to me, Probie?" Mike's eyes twinkled as he barked out a raspy laugh. "Of course you would," he answered himself. "That's how I taught you." He nodded. "Official statement," he agreed. "I'll make sure you get it."

"Good." Gibbs turned away.

"Jethro." The utterance of his given name by Franks caused Gibbs to hesitate and glance back at his old boss. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to keep her alive."

"Yeah," Gibbs murmured, "so am I."

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Jethro vaguely recalled briefing Leon – soon to be Director Vance, it appeared – via the MTAC connection the OSP team had in their headquarters, although later, he couldn't remember a thing about what he'd said. Macy – another face from his past that he could have done without seeing – arranged hotel accommodations for him and McGee, but Gibbs left his senior field agent deep in discussion with two of the computer operators and drove to the nearest beach where he parked to watch the sunset. It was only now beginning to hit him that Jenny was truly gone, that they'd never have the chance to resolve all of their issues or even share a meal again. She was gone.

"You're a difficult man to track down," a voice called out. Gibbs glanced up from where he sat on the sand and frowned.

"What do you want, Kort?" he demanded. The CIA agent smirked.

"Just wanted to make sure you got the intel I sent you about Officer Rivkin."

"I got it," Gibbs replied angrily. "David said we sanctioned the hit. Is that true?"

"It is." Jethro shook his head in disgust and glared at the ocean. He wasn't a stranger to wanting to see someone dead – even now, years after the fact, he sometimes still woke up wanting to shoot the sonuvabitch who had killed Shannon and Kelly again … and again … and again … – but the notion of the American government sanctioning an assassination left him feeling queasy. "For what it's worth," Kort said, "I'm sorry for your loss. Director Shepard was a good woman."

"You froze her assets, didn't you?" Gibbs remarked flatly. At the CIA agent's look, he continued. "Chernytskya's," he explained.

"We … _may _have had something to do with that," Kort replied wryly. His good humor vanished. "Things are changing in Israel," he said carefully. "The Knesset is looking into some of your friend Eli's dealings these last few weeks. I understand that it is prompted by an internal probe he started shortly after the Harari incident."

"Which you instigated," Gibbs snapped. Kort chuckled.

"You give me too much credit, Gibbs," he said. "I took advantage of what was already in place." The smile faded away fairly quickly. "Consider this early warning: the analysts at Langley expect there to be a new director in Tel Aviv by next year and I doubt a new administration will be quite so … lenient when it comes to Officer David's liaison position." Gibbs grunted, even as he wondered whether the new leadership at NCIS would be interested in retaining Ziva. Jenny had been the driving force behind the position in the first place due to the close friendship the two women had, and Jethro still didn't know what Vance thought about Ziva. For that matter, he didn't know how it would play out with Tony should Ziva be recalled.

When he finally looked up to ask the CIA agent whey he was volunteering information, Kort was long gone and, though he knew he imagined it, Gibbs almost thought he could hear Jenny's voice whispering a final comment about the CIA agent.

"Jackass."

It made him smile.

* * *

**A/N #2:** I'm not 100% on the spelling of Svetlana's last name - Chernytskya - but figured that since it's being translated from Russian to English, I could get away with any errors and claim that it's a translating error. Or something.


	89. The Widening Gyre, 39: Ziva

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: **Rated **M **for language, sexual situations, violence, and Mossad being portrayed as the good guys for a change, something the canon show seems incapable of doing, just like they lie about Tony & Ziva's relationship "rapidly evolving" in the first five episodes of season 7 unless their definition of of evolving is synonymous with 'rushing back to last year's status quo and stagnating while Tony turns into a complete & utter jackass.'

This chapter takes place about a week after the previous one.

* * *

**Ziva**

Her apartment felt too empty.

Nothing appeared to have changed in the almost four months since she'd last stood in the living room, but it no longer really felt like home. Every single room was ominously silent, so much so that she made a careful sweep throughout the entire apartment with the service pistol Gibbs had given her along with the discharge orders from the hospital. She checked all of the potential hiding places inside the apartment before making sure that the windows and doors were safely secured. This led to another, more intensive sweep throughout each room, during which she uncovered no less than four bugs. Three were of American manufacture – probably Central Intelligence, although she did not entirely rule out the FBI, the NSA, or Homeland Security – but the fourth she recognized as originating from Mossad.

Another hour passed while she ripped apart her apartment in an attempt to find more recording devices, which was no easy task with one of her arms in a cast. No piece of furniture was safe and, before she realized it, Ziva had torn apart her couch and disassembled all of the lamps. Suddenly horribly embarrassed and unable to look at the mess she had wrought in this moment of weakness, Ziva retreated to the bathroom where she crawled into the empty tub and let the tears fall.

An eternity later, she limped out of the bathroom, her muscles stiff and sore from the awkward position she had been sitting in. Her broken arm and still-healing jaw ached, reminding her that it was long past time for one of the painkillers she'd been given upon release from Bethesda earlier this morning, but Ziva pushed the discomfort down. This pain was nothing compared to past injuries and she was already calculating the best way to use the cast as a weapon should it be necessary. She had earlier concealed a thin knife in it, one constructed from ceramics so it would not set off a metal detector.

She crawled into her too wide bed – had it grown while she was away? She did not recall having this much room when she went to sleep and it frankly disconcerted her – and spent another few hours tossing and turning in an ultimately failed attempt to get comfortable. Even with the thick comforter that Abby had given her at her last birthday, she couldn't seem to get warm and all the ambient noises sounded wrong. Blowing out a frustrated sigh, she rolled out of the bed and retraced her steps to the bathroom where she fumbled through the various medicines that she'd been prescribed. One of them was a mild sedative, and she swallowed it dry before making another circuit through the apartment to double-check the doors and windows. When she finally dozed off, it was a restless sleep filled with uncomfortable dreams and dark memories.

The knock at the front door startled her out of one such nightmare, and she reacted instantly, swinging the pistol out from underneath her pillow to point it toward the noise. Her heart pounded loudly and, for the span of an impossibly long moment, she was back in the Russian gulag, waiting for the next of her would-be rapists to enter her cell. She swallowed a bitter curse as the knock repeated, this time accompanied by a familiar voice.

"Ziva?" Michael Rivkin called out.

"Hold your cows," she replied, raising her voice so he would be able to hear her. The moment the idiom left her lips, Ziva frowned. That wasn't right. It was horses, not cows. But why would someone _hold _horses? Stupid Americans and their stupid idioms.

When she opened the door, Michael gave her a quick, appraising look, worry and guilt lurking in his eyes. He looked exhausted, with dark circles underneath his eyes and a three-day beard on his chin. When she gestured for him to enter, he did so hesitantly. The moment he caught sight of her ruined living room, he glanced at her. She shrugged.

"I was looking for _more _recording devices," she admitted sourly as she pushed the door shut and locked it without thinking. The moment she realized what she had done, Ziva blushed.

But she didn't unlock the door.

_"Your father asked me to stop by and see how you were doing before I leave," _Michael said in Hebrew. He kept his eyes trained on a spot exactly three centimeters to the left of Ziva's face.

_"I am … as well as can be expected," _she replied. _"You are being reassigned?"_ Rivkin nodded.

_"Deputy Director Ayalon has been making … noises about the misuse of Kidon operatives in recent weeks," _he revealed. _"I believe he is trying to sway the prime minister to give him your father's job."_

_"Ayalon's idea of subtlety is an air strike," _Ziva remarked wryly. _"He would make a poor director of Mossad."_ She frowned in sudden comprehension of Rivkin's obvious discomfort. _"Michael," _she said carefully, _"you are not to blame for what happened to me."_

_"Am I not?" _he asked sharply. _"It was my job to keep you and Tony safe and I failed!" _Ziva winced at the raw self-hatred she could hear in his voice and reached out for his hand. She did not bother pointing out that no one knew how Drantyev discovered the truth about their identities, even if the safe gamble – or was that safe bet? Stupid English – was on the CIA agent, Trent Kort.

_"We are alive," _she pointed out. _"You found us and saved us."_ Michael's shoulders drooped and he pinned her with a look so intense it almost caused her to recoil.

_"I was not fast enough," _he said. Ziva smiled.

_"Then in the future," _she said, _"be faster."_ Michael forced a grin on his face and Ziva allowed her hand to drop. _"I have been barred from driving by my doctors," _she said. Rivkin nodded in understanding.

_"Yes," _he replied to the question she had not yet phrased, _"I will drive you to Bethesda."_

To her secret relief, Michael stepped outside the apartment so she could change clothes and offered no comment when she locked the door behind him, even though Ziva hated herself a little bit for needing the extra security. It was something she knew she would have to face in the future, but at the moment, she was more worried about Tony. Even though he had pretended to be fine last night when he joined the doctors and Gibbs in ordering her home for a night in her own bed, she had seen how he was rapidly withdrawing into himself by internalizing all of his misplaced guilt and trying to deflect notice behind his mask of humor. If it was the last thing she did, she was going to get him to stop blaming himself for things that were out of his control.

_"I have some photographs I need you to examine," _Michael said glumly when they climbed into his rental car. Ziva flinched – she had been expecting this, although not so soon – and nodded. He handed her a digital viewer before locking his eyes on the road ahead of them. With a sigh, Ziva powered the device up and began cycling through the images of corpses. She reached the end of her mental list long before they ran out of photos.

_"All of them are dead," _she remarked in a dull voice, suddenly unsure about her emotions. She had wanted to kill some of these men herself for what they had done to her – and Tony – but her father, in his zeal to prove that he was not the monster she had begun to think of him as, had already had them killed. Violently. Most had died at the gulag, killed by SEALs or Hadar's Kidon team, and a pair of them had died in Los Angeles. She didn't know where the last two had been killed and honestly did not care. As she reached the last photo – a man named Dmitri Shuvalov – she caught sight of Michael frowning. _"What?"_ she demanded.

_"That man," _Rivkin said slowly, hesitantly. _"When Tony saw his photo …" _He trailed off, uncomfortable and visibly unsure how to continue.

_"I know," _Ziva murmured. She knew _exactly _why Tony reacted to this man's image, even though she had not been meant to overhear the doctors discussing the unmistakable evidence of sexual assault. _"Who killed him?" _she asked in a clear change of subject. Michael's relief was tangible.

"Gibbs,"he said.

_"Good," _Ziva said, even though she wished that it had been her who had killed this man. It would not have been quick and it would not have been painless.

Abby was sitting in one of the chairs outside Tony's hospital room when they arrived, looking so bored that she seemed to be on the verge of spontaneously imploding. She visibly perked up at Ziva's approach, gave Michael an approving look that had more than a hint of interest in it, before smiling brightly.

"The nurses threw me out so they could change his bandages," she said. "They should be done in a few minutes." Ziva nodded and accepted the hug her friend offered. "He's not doing so well today," Abby whispered. "Gibbs swung by earlier and they just stared at each other for like an hour."

"Was he angry?" Ziva asked.

"Gibbs?" At Ziva's nod, Abby shook her head. "No, he's as worried about Tony as the rest of us. He just sucks at actually communicating in real words." Ziva smiled. Before she could reply, Abby let her go and stepped closer to Michael, offering her hand. "Nobody's bothered to actually introduce us," the Goth said with another friendly smile, "so … hi! I'm Abby Sciuto." Rivkin accepted her hand and returned the smile.

"Michael Rivkin."

"Are you on an expense account for Mossad?" Abby asked, the non sequitur causing Michael to blink. "Because I'm starving and I think Ziva would like to be alone with Tony for a while." Rivkin chuckled.

"As a matter of fact," he said, "I am."

"Great!" Abby looped her arm through Michael's and began steering him toward the elevator. "And while we're at it," she said, "you can give me all sorts of blackmail material on Ziva!" Rivkin laughed before shooting Ziva a quick, mischievous look.

"I think I have just the thing, Miss Sciuto."

They vanished around the corner and, for a heartbeat, Ziva was unsure what had just happened. She shook it off and sank into the chair so recently vacated by Abby.

When the nurses emerged from Tony's room long minutes later, Ziva ducked through the doorway, pausing just long enough to see that he was actually conscious for a change. With his arms and legs encased in casts, he looked like a stereotypical bad skier from countless bad comedy movies, many of which he had forced her to watch or at least recommended to her. The blank, listless expression in his eyes, however, shattered that image and reminded her that he had been brutally beaten and tortured for almost a week straight. By comparison, she had gotten off relatively lightly. She moved closer to him, noting how he immediately reacted to her approach with something like caution or wariness. To her relief, he relaxed once he recognized her.

"How are you feeling?" she asked as she leaned over the bed and kissed him lightly on the lips.

"I hurt everywhere," Tony replied. He closed his eyes. "Ducky talked the doctors into dialing back on the drugs," he revealed with a grimace, "so at least I'm not totally insane tonight."

"Good," Ziva replied. "I was concerned that I might need to smother you with a pillow before escaping through the window."

_"One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest," _Tony identified with a smile that almost touched his eyes. "You have learned well, my apprentice." He let his eyes drift away and the good cheer waned. "Gibbs was here," he said. "He didn't say a word but I could tell he blamed me for Jenny."

"Stop it," Ziva ordered, the sharpness of her words causing him to look at her. "You are not to blame, Tony." He opened his mouth to disagree, but she pressed on. "Agent Decker was murdered by Chernytskya's operatives the day you and I were captured," she pointed out. "They planned this for a long time."

"Doesn't matter," Tony muttered. "I couldn't hold out."

"No one can," Ziva whispered. She used her good hand to tilt his face back toward her. "You are the only one who thinks you are responsible, Tony. Gibbs is just worried … how did Abby put it? He sucks at communicating with real words." To her delight, Tony responded with a real smile that lit up his face for a moment.

"Abs said that?" At Ziva's nod, Tony shook his head. "Just when you think you know somebody…" He closed his eyes and was silent for long seconds. "I spoke with Vance today," he said. Ziva hooked the chair with her foot and dragged it closer so she could sit.

"And?" she asked.

"I asked for a reassignment," Tony said. "I just want to go back to being a Navy cop. No more undercover crap for me," he continued before smirking. "Though apparently, your dad offered to give me a job with the Institute." Ziva blinked, well aware of Tony's eyes on her and completely unsure how to respond. She struggled daily with the knowledge that Eli actually liked DiNozzo and could not shake the memory of the gentle, amused smile her father gave her when she refused to return to Tel Aviv with him for her convalescence. He had even laughed when she tried to explain that Tony needed her before kissing her lightly on the cheek and reminding her that the man in front of her needed to be Jewish if they planned to have a traditional ceremony.

She shook her head to clear it.

"He likes you," she said.

"Guess I've got a way with your family," Tony replied in a tone that was a touch too light.

"Ari thought you were a fool," Ziva said automatically, wincing the moment the words left her lips. "I'm sorry," she started.

"Don't worry about it," Tony said in response. "He doesn't really count 'cause he was a Haswari, not a David."

"If my mother or Tali were alive," Ziva offered, "they would have loved you."

"Well my dad would hate you," Tony replied with another forced smile, "and that's probably the best compliment I can think of at the moment." He stared at her for a long moment. "What happens now?" he asked softly, and Ziva could hear all of the unspoken questions in his voice. Their undercover assignment was over so they no longer had a legitimate excuse to hide behind in regards to their relationship. "At the risk of sounding girly," Tony said, "I'm not sure if I can do this without you." Ziva smiled.

"I'm not going anywhere," she said before leaning forward to kiss him again.

* * *

**A/N #2:** While I'm normally dissatisfied with my "Abby voice," I was pleasantly surprised at how she turned out in her tiny little scene here.


	90. The Widening Gyre, 40: Tim

**Part 2: The Widening Gyre  
**

**Author's Note: **Rated **M **for language, sexual situations, violence, and non-evil Michelle Lee (because frankly? That was so painfully contrived it made me laugh out loud. I did borrow the little sister bit, although I think my version is a bit younger. Nobody picked up on my subtle hints earlier...)

This chapter takes place about a week (maybe two) after the previous one.

* * *

**Tim**

Hospitals made him nervous.

That hadn't always been the case, but he had learned to associate the sights, sounds and smells with Jeanne, so every time he entered a medical facility these days, he found himself thinking of her. It wasn't a real problem when his visits were brief – interviewing a victim, for example, or checking with a doctor or nurse during a case – but times like now, when he was expected to spend a couple of hours sitting in Tony's room while DiNozzo slumbered away in a drugged sleep or stared at the window with an impossible to decipher expression on his face, those moments drove Tim a little mad. And it certainly didn't help that no one _except _Tony seemed to notice his discomfort.

At the moment, as Tim squirmed in the hard plastic chair – honestly, did they _intentionally _make these things uncomfortable? – Abby was once again describing the fight between him and the rogue Mossad officers in suitably exaggerated terms to an amused-looking Tony and Ziva. No, scratch that, McGee decided. Tony was _pretending _to be amused, but the smile on his lips didn't actually touch his eyes. Now that he thought about it, Tim couldn't recall the last time he saw genuine humor on DiNozzo's face – it was certainly before Gibbs came back from Mexico – and he realized how badly he wanted the old Tony back.

"Really sounds like you kicked a little ass there, McRambo," the subject of Tim's musings said as soon as Abby finally trailed off. McGee flushed the moment he realized that he'd been so distracted that they had all likely been staring at him for a few seconds. He shrugged.

"I had good teachers," he offered, waiting until the implied compliment sank in and Tony's eyes widened in surprise before continued. "Thanks, Ziva," Tim said with a smile. DiNozzo snorted – and winced in pain – before sending a smirk in McGee's direction. It wasn't the usual condescending 'you're just a lowly probie' one that Tim had grown accustomed to ever since he joined the MCRT, but rather an acknowledgment that McGee had one-upped Tony. A year ago, Tim would have been giddy to receive such a look.

Today, it worried the hell out of him.

It hadn't escaped his notice how Tony reacted whenever anyone entered his room, or how Ziva's posture was inevitably wary whenever she was around men other than DiNozzo, or even the pained expression Gibbs donned every time he glanced at either of them while they were unaware of his presence. To a trained investigator, all of these little things added up to a terrible conclusion about exactly what had happened to the two, one that Tim had consistently shied away from confronting because torture and rape didn't happen to people like Anthony D. DiNozzo or Ziva David. They were the heroes who laughed off little things like pain and loss, no matter that it would break a lesser man or woman. If they could be victims, then _anyone _could. No one was safe. The thought made him want to throw up.

He fled from Tony's room at the first opportunity and retreated to the nearest bathroom where he splashed cold water on his face and tried to push the memories threatening to overwhelm him away. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel the warm spray of blood on his face and no amount of scrubbing seemed to get rid of it. Tim glared at his reflection and wished he was stronger. He hadn't even known the woman, dammit! Tony had watched Kate die in the exact same manner and he never had any problems with it!

"Are you well?" Ziva's soft voice caused him to jump and McGee shot her a startled look even as he realized he shouldn't have been surprised. She'd never had a problem chasing Tony into the bathroom before, so why should he be any different?

"You do realize," he said as he pulled some paper towels free from the wall dispenser and began drying his hands, "this is a _men's _bathroom, right?" Ziva shrugged.

"Gibbs told us about Los Angeles," she said without bothering to respond to his question. Tim almost smirked at the Israeli's casual reference to her and Tony as 'us' and wondered if she was even aware of it.

"I'm fine," he replied quickly, hoping that she would sense his lack of desire to talk about it and just change the subject. Ziva glanced down to his hands and McGee followed the track of her eyes, realizing too late that the paper towels had disintegrated under his intense – and unconscious – scrubbing. He grimaced and tossed the shreds into the nearby trash can.

"You should talk to Tony," Ziva suggested. Tim gave her an incredulous look – had she forgotten the kind of relationship he had with DiNozzo? – but she ignored it. "Sometimes," she admitted softly, "he still has nightmares about Agent Todd's death." For a second, McGee nearly asked her how she knew that, but just as quickly realized he was an idiot; of course she would know about any nightmares Tony had! Still, the revelation caught him by surprise and he wet his lips.

"He does?" Ziva nodded. "He never talks about it…" She smiled.

"Does that really surprise you?" she asked. Tim sighed but shook his head. He took a step toward the door, but froze the moment he saw Ziva instinctively recoil away from him. Pursing her lips, she glanced down, allowing her curtain of hair to momentarily conceal her face – and the blush of embarrassment – from view, but McGee barely saw it as a surge of white-hot rage and hate toward the men who had done this to her thundered through him. When Ziva glanced up, their eyes met and he forced the anger off his face while intentionally taking a step back to give her the space she needed. She smiled her thanks and pulled the bathroom door open.

Gibbs was waiting outside Tony's room, dressed immaculately in a dark suit that immediately reminded Tim what today was: Director Shepard's funeral. There had been an unspoken agreement that they would all meet here at the hospital, but now, McGee was beginning to wonder if that was a mistake. How would Tony react to this latest blow to the NCIS family, especially since he was the only one who couldn't go pay his final respects?

"I need you to stay here," Gibbs said to Ziva without preamble. "Make something up if you have to," he said, "but don't leave him alone. Not today." Ziva nodded in understanding.

"Jenny would not mind," she remarked with a sad smile before sliding through the doorway while making a conscious effort to avoid physical contact with either of them. Gibbs drew in a steadying breath and followed her into the room.

"Let's go, Abs," he said before locking eyes with Tony. "I'll be by after the service."

"Looking forward to it, Boss," Tony said in a tone that implied he'd prefer having an exploratory root canal. Without painkillers. To Tim's surprise, DiNozzo didn't even comment when Ziva reclaimed her seat – and it was definitely _hers_; not even Gibbs dared to sit there when he visited – next to the bed.

The funeral was even more difficult to get through than Paula's had been last year, and Tim found himself unable to tear his eyes off of the image of his stoic boss struggling to keep from letting any tears fall. Abby alternated between clinging to Gibbs or Ducky, her eyes wet, which left McGee to stand quietly near the back of the assembled NCIS agents attending. There were a respectable number of VIPs present, including the Secretary of the Navy, the directors of Central Intelligence, Homeland Security and the FBI. Special Agent Fornell had a position of honor among the latter group and had apparently brought his entire team. Even the Israeli Ambassador showed up, which had led to an interesting scene when he offered condolences first to Gibbs and _then _to the SecNav. No one really seemed that surprised, and McGee could swear that he saw a look of pity on Fornell's face.

As the service wound down, Tim found himself struggling to reconcile his emotions. His mother had taught him to let go of grudges and it seemed … trite to cling to his anger at Jennifer Shepard for tainting his relationship with Jeanne with her insane pursuit of La Grenouille. She was dead now, so why couldn't he focus on the good things she'd done? Instead of thinking about the glowing commendations she'd attached to his personnel file, why was he stuck hating her for putting Tony and Ziva into the situation that led them to be tortured?

_You suck, _he told himself sourly.

Once the ceremony was over, Tim followed Gibbs back to the parked Charger without comment while Abby and Ducky headed for the doctor's vintage Morgan so they could return to Bethesda. McGee caught sight of Michelle and Palmer arguing, with the former holding a very young child in her arms. For a moment, Tim stared at them, unable to believe his eyes, but he looked away the moment he realized that, not only did the math fail to add up, he certainly wouldn't have missed noticing Lee's pregnancy.

"Her sister," Gibbs said in response to the unvoiced question, and Tim flinched at the older man's cool appraisal of him. "Director wants to talk to us before we go see Tony," the silver-haired former Marine stated before sliding into the car.

Lee arrived shortly after they did, though there was no sign of either Palmer or her sister so McGee guessed that had been what the argument was about. She gave Gibbs a solemn nod, before he jerked his head toward the director's door and stalked off without a word. Tim followed.

"Rough couple of days," Leon Vance said once they filed into his – and it was certainly his now; the SecNav had seen to that – office. The new director of NCIS frowned and pulled the toothpick out of his mouth. "Agent Lee," he said, the comment causing Michelle to straighten, "I've approved your transfer request. You'll report to Special Agent Roberts on Monday morning." Tim's eyebrows shot up – Roberts headed one of the Procurement Fraud units – but Gibbs barely reacted beyond a mild grunt which seemed to imply that he had expected (or, more likely, arranged) this. "Agent McGee," Vance continued without missing a beat, "I'm giving you a choice. OSP in LA or Cyber-Crimes here in D.C."

"I want to stay on Gibbs' team," Tim replied without thinking. To his surprise, both of the other men smiled.

"You've had a rough couple of months, McGee," the director pointed out.

"Think of it as a vacation," Gibbs added. "Time for you to get your head on straight so you can deal with what's happened." He pinned Tim with an unblinking gaze and McGee was immediately reminded of their awkward conversation on the plane trip to Norway.

"Cyber-Crimes," he decided softly. Washington was his home and he sure as hell wasn't going to leave without putting up a fight. He shot Gibbs a quick look, frowning at the complete lack of surprise on the man's face. Vance began speaking once more.

"I've already endorsed your recommendation that Agent DiNozzo and Officer David receive the Presidential Medal of Freedom," he said to Gibbs. Michelle inhaled sharply and gave Tim a quick, wide-eyed look. "Which leads me to the next issue: I'm not comfortable with having them on the same team in the future."

"It's never been a problem before," Gibbs growled, but Vance shrugged.

"Things are different now," he pointed out. "I've already spoken with Director David and he's agreed to keep the liaison position intact for now, but I'm going to be making some changes." Gibbs straightened and narrowed his eyes. "Effective immediately, she will be transferred to Counterterrorism where her expertise can be more effectively utilized."

"And DiNozzo?"

"I offered him a position in OSP," the director said, "but he turned it down. Said he was more interested in investigating dead petty officers and Marines." Vance smiled at Gibbs' expression. "I'm not planning on throwing your boy to the wolves, Jethro," he said wryly.

"Good."

They filed out of the director's office several minutes later, with Gibbs hanging back to have a private word with Vance. Curiosity overwhelmed his common sense so Tim hesitated just past the door to eavesdrop.

"Put DiNozzo on my team," Gibbs said immediately.

"There isn't a room for two supervisory special agents on your team," the director began, but Gibbs bulldozed over the argument.

"Tony has been undercover for almost two years," he growled. "He'll need a refresher course in how to conduct a criminal investigation before you can offer him his own team. I can give him that."

"You can't protect them forever, Gibbs," Vance said after a long moment of silence. "But that's not what you're doing, is it?" Tim could almost hear the man's smile as he continued. "Planning to retire again, Jethro?"

"The thought's crossed my mind once or twice," Gibbs replied.

"It's not easy burying friends _or _lovers," the director said softly. "I'll speak to Agent DiNozzo," he added a moment later. "No promises, Gibbs, but I'll speak to him. Right now, though, you should speak to the nosy agent lurking outside my door who isn't as sneaky as he thinks he is."

Gibbs exited the director's office a moment later, giving Tim a flat but unsurprised look as McGee fell into step alongside him. The words that Tim wanted to say just wouldn't come to mind, but Gibbs seemed to take pity on him the moment the elevator door closed.

"I asked that you be transferred," he revealed. As Tim drew in a sharp breath, Gibbs frowned. "You need a break, McGee," he pointed out. "I'm not an easy man to work for and after the year you've had, you really need a vacation."

"How long?" Tim asked, hating the plaintive tone in his voice.

"Until I'm satisfied you're not thinking about eating your gun," Gibbs said flatly. He gave McGee an understanding look, and Tim looked down, unable to meet the older man's eyes. A thought occurred to him and he glanced up, but wasn't able to find the words to ask who was looking out for Gibbs himself in the wake of Director Shepard's death. The lines in the older man's face were more pronounced than ever before and there was an air of exhaustion, of weary resignation hovering around him that had not been there before.

"That's why you want Tony back, isn't it?" McGee wondered. It wasn't what he really wanted to ask, but would do for now, even as he made a silent vow to keep an eye on his boss – his _ex_-boss, he reminded himself.

"I've been where he is right now," Gibbs said. He shook his head, and Tim wondered at the expression that flashed across his face. He had seen it only once before, in the hours immediately after Kate had died. "It's not a pretty place." At McGee's silence, the silver-haired man glanced at him. "You okay?" he asked.

"Nothing's the same anymore," Tim murmured. Gibbs grunted and his next words felt like a proclamation.

"Everything changes, Tim."

THE END of **PART 2: THE WIDENING GYRE**  
To Be Concluded in **PART 3: SLOUCHES TOWARDS BETHLEHEM**

* * *

.

.

That's it for a while. I'm going to be taking a break from this story in an attempt to recharge my creative batteries and hopefully get excited about NCIS once more - the last two or three episodes haven't done a lot to restore my faith in the showrunners, despite how good 7x01 and x02 too were, and words alone cannot express how much I am **NOT **looking forward to 7x09 "Child's Play" (the Navy employing child geniuses? *waves goodbye to the last vestiges of believability that NCIS may have had*) It's _really _hard to write a fic revolving around Tony & Ziva being in a romantic relationship when all I see on the canon show is mean-spiritedness and acrimony between the two, all the while I'm being told by the executive producer that they're in love or at least have deep feelings for one another. I can only imagine how frustrated the Gibbs/Ziva people are (even though I personally am utterly uninterested in that pairing), but at least in the canon version of that relationship (the surrogate father/daughter one), they aren't seeing one part of their ship written as a unmitigated jackass who deserves to be hit in the face with a shovel. Repeatedly. I should have known better than to trust _anything _Shane Brennan says, because past history has shown he and the truth have only a passing acquaintance (the "rapid evolution" comment springs to mind, as does Ziva being a "changed woman" when she's being written exactly like she was last season, plus the whole "Tiva fans will be pleased with how season 6 ends" tripe.) On the bright side, at least _The Mentalist _is turning out to be a fun show to watch.

I apologize in advance for this delay and ask that, if you want to discuss or dispute my issues with season 7, please do so in a PM instead of the review thread, although I'd very much like to know what you think about this story thus far.

Part 3 is fully plotted out and will also be 40 chapters like Part 1, although I will not begin posting it until I'm much, much farther along. At the moment, I've only just started work on it and then in my dwindling spare time.


	91. Pt 3, Slouches Toward Bethlehem, 1: Tony

**Part 3: Slouches Toward Bethlehem  
**

**Author's Note: ** Picks up around eighteen months after the previous chapter, placing it somewhere around the season 7 timeline wise (minus the whole Rivkin fiasco & Ziva betraying the team silliness from canon.) Some quick notes: 1) It is public knowledge that Director Shepard died in a gunfight; the cover-up in this case conceals that she was the target of an assassination; 2) Ziva is no longer on the MCRT, but rather acts as an _actual _liaison officer with NCIS Counterintelligence, which is still based in DC; 3) Technically, Tony and Jethro hold the same 'rank' (Supervisory Special Agent), with Gibbs clearly grooming DiNozzo to take over the DC MCRT when Jethro retires again (which he's been hinting at.)

References to canon episodes might be made but do not expect me to go into much detail about how they changed unless they directly apply to the story (which I don't expect them to.) Expect implied sex, explicit violence, harsh language, bad decisions, unlucky breaks, and butt-kicking action. All the things that are best in life ... wait ... that's "to crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentation of their women." Ah, _Conan._

And yeah, I know it's utterly unrealistic that Tony would be back in fighting form so quickly, but he clearly has a superhuman healing factor based entirely on the canonical fact that he even returned after the events of SWAK ... just like Ziva's ridiculously fast recovery (emotionally and physically) following her Bogus Desert Vacation following "Aliyah" so just roll with it. This is Hollywoodland, where bullet wounds are minor inconveniences, not career-ending injuries.

Updates will be **_very _**sporadic.

* * *

**Tony**

Petty Officer Second Class Henziger was a complete moron.

The Navy corpsman was big and beefy, looking more like a linebacker for a football team than a medic, but at the moment, Tony was too busy wondering if the U.S. Navy had reduced its entry requirements in order to allow the functionally brain dead to join up. In his eight-plus years with NCIS, DiNozzo had never before interacted with a criminal this stupid. Even the stoned-out-of-their-minds' gang-bangers he'd had to deal with in Baltimore before joining Gibbs' team were smarter than this clown.

"I swear," he remarked from the chair that he'd been handcuffed to, "you guys have to be the dumbest bank robbers in the history of bank robbery." Henziger gave him a sour glance, but then turned his attention back to keeping the employees covered with his submachine gun. "I mean, hitting a bank in the middle of a workday is one thing," he continued, "but the way you did it? Pure amateur hour."

"Shut up," Henziger growled in a distinctly Bostonian accent. He glared. "And we got the drop on you, didn't we?"

"That's not how _I _remember it," Tony replied with a bright grin that he didn't actually feel. His head continued to ache from where one of Henziger's cohorts had struck him with the butt of his weapon as DiNozzo was emerging from the bathroom. It had been pure unluckiness that landed him in this latest mess – the MCRT didn't even have a case at the moment! – and knowing that Ziva wouldn't let him live this down made him grind his teeth. Why did these morons have to hit _his _bank on the very day he was allowed to officially return to field service after a year and a half of painful rehab and even more excruciating desk duty? And on his damned lunch hour when all he'd wanted to do was withdraw some freaking money! Did he have some sort of 'kick me' sign hanging on his back that only bad guys could see?

He shot a quick, annoyed look at the cowering form of Probie Number Six – Cavill? Cahill? Eh, who cared? The guy was almost as big an idiot as these idiots and sure as hell hadn't been much use so far; what kind of crappy agent didn't even _try _to warn his partner that bad guys were in the building? – and then carefully surveyed the five bank robbers. Henziger was the only one not a Marine, and Tony's stomach twisted into a tight knot as he observed how careless these men were in their treatment of the hostages. They weren't only stupid, they were callous and dangerous. From the way these men were acting, _especially _around the more attractive tellers, it seemed like only a matter of time before this got ugly.

Which meant that Tony had run out of time.

He had already managed to pick the lock on his handcuffs (for which he had to remember to thank Ziva for her more … interesting games; who knew they had practical applications?), thanks entirely to the really poor job Henziger had done of patting Tony down. They'd taken his Sig, but missed the back-up .38 strapped to the small of his back, as well as the three knives he had secreted on his person. The lockpicks in his back pocket had obviously been overlooked, but most damning was how they didn't even bother to check his pockets for a phone. It had taken some very awkward contortions to get the cell out and dial Gibbs – speed dial number two – without letting these clowns (or anyone else for that matter) realize his cuffs were undone. He had hoped that Gibbs would get here before things got out of hand, but that didn't seem likely.

With the cuffs hanging limply around his left hand, Tony needed to get Henziger close enough for a takedown that wouldn't endanger any of the civilians on the floor. He smirked as he realized the approach to take. There weren't very many people who understood that his mouth was as dangerous a weapon as any pistol he carried; pick at someone enough and it would piss them off, which always led to them doing something stupid or sloppy. Stupid and sloppy he could handle.

"Taking out the cameras made sense," he said, "but stepping in front of them to spray paint the lenses ... while wearing your _uniform_?" He shook his head in disgust. "Neil McCauley you aren't." Henziger gave him a blank, uncomprehending look. "Neil McCauley?" Tony repeated. "Played by Robert De Niro in Michael Mann's 1995 classic, _Heat._"

"I don't watch movies," the petty officer grumbled. "Now shut up." He took a step closer to where Tony sat, brandishing the Intratec TEC-DC9 he held in one hand. Tony ignored him.

"Then you missed a very important morality tale," he said. "At the end, McCauley was killed by Vincent Hanna, played by the always excellent Al Pacino." He flashed a smile. "In this example, I'm the good LAPD lieutenant and you … you're not even Val Kilmer's character."

"Do you ever shut up?" Henziger snarled. The petty officer was clutching the butt of his TEC-9 so tightly that his hands were almost white with strain … which was rather telling since the man was African-American. Tony snickered.

"Afraid not," he replied. "Drives my boss crazy." He wet his lips. "You know this isn't going to end well, Henziger," he said calmly. He watched as the muscles in the petty officer's jaw twitched but pretended not to notice as he watched the corpsman's three Marine accomplices continue emptying the teller's registers while the fourth loitered near the door to keep an eye out for the police. "Either you or one of your buddies is going to do something stupid," Tony added, "and then somebody will die. After that, all bets are off."

"Shut up," Henziger hissed again. _Just a little more, _Tony told himself. The petty officer was teetering on the edge and only needed a tiny push…

"And I bet you'll be _real _popular in prison," DiNozzo replied. "With that 'purty' mouth of yours."

"Shut up!" the corpsman bellowed. He took two rapid steps toward Tony, raising the TEC-9 as if to shoot him.

And, in that moment, Tony acted.

He sprang up out of the seat, lunging toward the startled Henziger so quickly that the much larger man was caught completely by surprise. With his left hand, Tony grabbed the corpsman's wrist and redirected the TEC-9 toward the ceiling (just in case it was fired) even as he smashed his right fist into the man's throat with as much power as he could muster. Henziger reeled backward from the blow, dropping the submachine gun as his hands automatically went to his throat. Ignoring him, Tony crouched, yanking the .38 from its place of concealment and thumbing the hammer back. He took aim at the fourth Marine by the door who was bringing his own SMG around. Their eyes met.

Tony pulled the trigger.

With a boom, the .38 kicked in his hand and the Marine toppled, blood gushing out from the perfect hole in his forehead. Tony spun, locating a second Marine, this one in the process of dropping his bag and clawing for the M4 carbine hanging off his shoulder. DiNozzo fired once more, the boom echoing loudly in the enclosed space, but his aim was slightly off. Instead of hitting the man in the chest, the round struck high, smashing through the Marine's throat and severing the jugular artery. He fired again, this time aiming squarely for the man's heart, before sliding closer to where Henziger was kneeling. The corpsman's face was turning purple from lack of oxygen, but, apart from giving him a solid kick to the head to encourage the hulky moron to pass out, Tony ignored him while he tried to get a bead on the other two Marines. One of them sprang into view, firing his M4 with short, controlled bursts as he bounded forward. Bullets screamed by his head, but Tony pushed the instinctive fear away and hunkered down behind cover – in this case a very nice, very thick desk – between himself and the shooter.

The distinct sound of the man ejecting the magazine from his M4 was the sound DiNozzo was waiting for, and he popped up into view, found his target stupidly standing there fumbling with another magazine, and fired three times. All three rounds struck center mass and the Marine dropped to his knees, a startled look on his face as he touched the bullet holes. He gaped at the blood on his hands and then fell forward.

_Empty! _Tony's brain screamed at him as the last of the Marines shuffled into view, hiding behind the useless hunk of flesh that was Probie Number Six. The Marine was holding a pistol to the man's temple and staring at Tony with _very _wide eyes.

"Freeze!" the man shouted as DiNozzo began stalking forward, the now useless .38 held at the ready as if he hadn't just emptied it.

"That's my line," Tony replied. "Drop your weapon and let him go." The Marine's eyes darted quickly, bouncing back and forth between the unmoving forms of his associates, as well as the moaning, terrified civilians on the floor. His lips began to move and DiNozzo realized the man was counting. "I know what you're thinking," he quoted. "Did he fire six shots or only five?" He stepped closer. "I could tell you that I kind of lost track myself, but that would be a lie." Step. "There are two ways this will end," Tony said flatly. His aim never wavered and he locked eyes with the Marine. "You can walk out of here in handcuffs or we can carry you out in a body bag. Your call."

"I'll kill him!" the sergeant exclaimed, his eyes wide with fear.

"No, you won't," DiNozzo replied. He slid carefully to the side, which in turn caused the Marine – Womack, according to his nametag – to backpedal slightly. "If you kill him, then there's absolutely nothing keeping me from shooting you in the head." Tony shifted again, frowning darkly as the ever-present ache in his shoulders – a gift from the late, unlamented Viggo Drantyev that kept on giving – intensified. It wasn't bad enough to inhibit motion or affect his ability in the field, but was always there, a dull pain that never really went away except when he was on painkillers, which had drawbacks of their own. No one – except for Ziva, of course – even knew about the chronic pain and, while she worried about him, she understood his need to get back into the saddle as quickly as possible. "This is your only way out that doesn't include you on an autopsy slab, Sergeant," he said coldly. Womack was silent for a very long moment and, when his eyes met Tony's, he visibly recoiled.

"I don't want to die," the Marine said softly.

"Neither does he," Tony replied. "Let him go and drop your weapon." Womack obeyed, dropping the pistol and raising his hands into the air. "Cuff him," DiNozzo ordered, the .38 still trained on Sergeant Womack. The moment Probie Number Six – dammit, what _was _his name? Gibbs had used it just this morning! – snapped the cuffs onto the Marine, Tony lowered the pistol and headed toward the front door, pulling his badge off his belt as he did. He didn't have to wait long.

With a screech of braking tires, Gibbs and McGee arrived in one of the NCIS Chargers. Mere seconds later, four other vehicles arrived – three local LEOs and another Charger, this one carrying Fornell and … oh, God, Sacks himself. This day just kept getting better and better. Tony shook his head in disgust before pushing the door open and brandishing his badge.

"About time you showed up, Boss," he groused as the LEOs raced inside to assume control of the situation. Frightened – or excited, as in the case of a teenager barely old enough to shave – civilians rushed out of the building where more police officers began segregating them for statements.

"What's the situation, DiNutso?" Fornell asked, frowning at the splatter of blood and brains that caked one of the doors.

"Under control," Tony retorted coolly. He focused his attention on Gibbs. "Four Marines, one Navy corpsman. Three are dead, one is _probably _dead, and the fifth is in cuffs."

_"Probably _dead?" Sacks interjected contemptuously. Tony shrugged and moved out of the way so the newly arriving paramedics could enter. One of them he vaguely recognized as a girl he'd dated a couple years back, but he pretended not to see the wink she sent him as Gibbs gave the bank a quick glance before shaking his head.

"One day, DiNozzo," he said, wry amusement in his voice. "You're back in the field for _one day _and you get into a shoot-out."

"At a bank, no less," Fornell pointed out. "I think your people intentionally try to make my job difficult, Jethro." He and Gibbs exchanged long-suffering looks, and Tony marveled at how they seemed to communicate without even speaking. Fornell raised both eyebrows, Gibbs shrugged, and Fornell nodded. "Walk me through this, DiNutso," he ordered once all non-law enforcement personnel had been escorted out of the building. Tony glanced at Gibbs who nodded.

"I came out of the bathroom," he said in a bored voice, "two of them jumped me, grabbed my Sig – which I'd like back sometime soon – and then cuffed me to a chair."

"And where was your partner during this?"

"I dunno," Tony replied. "Where were you, McGee?" Tim did a poor job hiding his smile as Probie Number Six flushed and looked down. "The probie was already on the ground when they threw me in the chair," DiNozzo continued. "I picked the lock, got my cell, contacted Gibbs, and waited." He frowned. "And then they started acting stupid – shoving people around, threatening some of the women…" His voice cracked slightly on this last remark and Gibbs gave him a quick look that no one else seemed to notice. "So I acted before they hurt any of the hostages." He pointed toward the door and the first Marine. "Took out the petty officer, pulled my back-up gun – did I mention these guys were stupid? – and got a lucky shot on that guy. Put two rounds into number two, and then three into him." He ended the explanation by pointing to the Marine in question.

"That's six shots," Probie Number Six said, suddenly remarkably pale.

"Stop the presses," Tony growled. "He can actually count."

"You didn't have any bullets left!" the probie said with wide eyes. "He had a _gun _to my _head _and you didn't have any bullets left!" Muttering something under his breath, he stormed away.

"Ah, crap," DiNozzo muttered. "Think he'll come back?"

"Not likely," Gibbs replied before shaking his head. "That's five you've chased off, DiNozzo."

"Six, Boss." Tony winced the moment the words left his lips.

"The director's going to _love _this," McGee offered with a grin.

Tony sighed. And to think, the day had started out so nicely.

* * *

**A/N #2**: In regards to the review (from Andy, I believe) about how my version of Tony is quite dissimilar from the canon one, I feel that I need to point out that this is the entire point. In this story, Tony left the MCRT because he felt that he was not respected by his so-called friends and co-workers in the wake of Gibbs' return from Mexico, which led him to abandoning the "fool facade" that he'd hidden behind for so long, something they've shown flashes of throughout the course of the show. In the early seasons of NCIS, they established that Tony _was _a workaholic (I point you to SWAK, for example, or that early episode where he tailed somebody all night to get information and both Kate & Tim thought he was goofing off the following morning) who had a tendency to come into the office after hours to finish paperwork and the like. Until it was discarded in favor of writing him as a complete fool (cough*shanebrennan*cough), they also kept stating that he was _very _similar to how Gibbs had been in the past, which I simply took to a more logical conclusion (IMO.) When he left the DC MCRT at the beginning of this story, he was angry and hurt, but in true DiNozzo fashion, blamed himself a lot. He thus "reinvented" himself (for lack of a better word) to better fit in. Since he was working alongside Mossad, dropping the more ridiculous 'acting out' tendencies seemed necessary since I doubt the Institute suffers fools lightly.

As to his mission in Part 1, I guess I failed in conveying exactly what I meant to since there have been several remarks about it, so I will attempt to explain. He was _never _undercover, but was working alongside Rivkin in an investigatory fashion except when it was appropriate to be undercover. He was brought in because this was a joint Mossad/NCIS op, and Shepard wanted to have someone she trusted involved with the investigation, and even without taking into account the Benoit angle, they established at the beginning of season 4 that she _did _trust Tony. Director Shepard skirted around the truth whenever she spoke to Gibbs about it since she knew that Tony's new assignment was basically the La Grenouille op but from a different angle. She knew that Gibbs would react negatively should he find out that she was using Tony for another of her private wars. As to his abilities as an undercover agent, they've established in canon that he _was _trained for those sorts of things. There were several references to him having extensive undercover training; they mentioned in "Frame Up" that DiNozzo had gone undercover to bust a Mafia don while he was a cop in Baltimore, so we know he _has _the skills in canon. All of this is before he was turned into pure comedy relief, of course, back when he was actually competent all the time instead of only part of the time.


	92. Slouches Toward Bethlehem, 2: Ziva

**Part 3: Slouches Toward Bethlehem  
**

**Author's Note: **This may very well be the final chapter of this story. See below for explanation.

* * *

**Ziva**

She was sick of New York.

For the last week and a half, Ziva had been stuck in the city along with the rest of the DC counterterrorism team for a major conference regarding the state of the War on Terror – or whatever it was the new administration was calling it these days. Initially, she had been looking forward to this gathering – it was always a good idea to pool resources, and she had hoped that the Americans had finally learned the bitter lessons that Israel struggled with on a daily basis – but even before the first day had ended, she could see that this was a waste of time and money. Most of the bureaucrats attending seemed more interested in networking to improve their career and establishing their own credentials rather than dealing with the actual threats facing their nation, a myopic mindset made worse in her opinion by the new American administration's shift back to the failed policies of treating terrorist strikes as criminal actions as opposed to acts of war. Even worse, however, were those that seemed to think this entire conference was a singles meet-up and aggressively pursued anyone they found attractive. Despite the year and a half since what she thought of as the 'Russian Incident,' Ziva found herself extremely uncomfortable with the attention from unfamiliar men, which led to her temper flaring at inopportune moments. As a last ditch effort to ward off unwanted suitors without having to resort to violence, Ziva donned the wedding ring that had been part of her cover as Elisheva Stavi D'Agostino, but even that only eliminated the less persistent ones. Threats of bodily dismemberment in a cold and entirely serious voice chased off the rest.

The conference did not turn out to be a complete disaster, though. On no less than three occasions in the first day alone, her intimate knowledge of the Middle East and the weekly intelligence reports she received from Mossad allowed her to identify important misconceptions several high-ranking officials had about the political atmosphere of the region, as well as point out holes in their various contingency plans. Once her credentials were verified, she was suddenly deluged by would-be experts, many of whom had never even left American soil, all wanting her official opinion regarding their operations or threat assessments. Ziva was bluntly honest to anyone who sought her expertise – this was far too important a task to step lightly – which ruffled some feathers and probably made her a few enemies along the way, but she closed out the first week with a sense of accomplishment.

Unfortunately, her success led to her stay being extended as deputy directors for various agencies and other bureaucrats logged official requests with both Mossad and NCIS for her to coordinate with them. The counterterrorism team leader she answered to – a grizzled supervisory special agent named J.D. Thompson – lodged formal protests as her stay in New York delayed her normal duties in D.C., but, in the interests of inter-service cooperation, Director Vance signed off on it.

Which led to Ziva's current, hellish living conditions: sharing a hotel room with Special Agent Nikki Jardine.

When she first saw Tony's old apartment shortly after first joining the team – it had been after their undercover assignment as married assassins and she had driven him home – she had thought he was the worst kind of slob. There were unwashed dishes in the sink, partially filled food containers on the living room coffee table, clothes scattered on the floor in the bedroom, and the sight of it had cemented her opinion that he was an immature bachelor (which ultimately led to her unintended snub of him for the dinner party some weeks later), but Gibbs' tendency to call the team in at all hours of the night eventually led her own apartment to bear a startling resemblance to DiNozzo's. Invariably, the call would come while she was eating or in the shower, and she would rush out, leaving the mess behind to clean up later only to put it off a little longer when she dragged herself home once the investigation was closed or moved to cold cases because the leads had evaporated. Admittedly, Tony's years of living as a confirmed bachelor had not encouraged him to be more sanitary, but in the months since they had moved in together, Ziva had trained him fairly well in that regard.

Living with Nikki was like sharing a room with seven or eight DiNozzos, all of whom were either drunk or even more slovenly than their namesake.

On Jardine's side of the room, clothes were everywhere, tossed haphazardly on the floor or hanging on top of the fold-down ironing board. Empty water bottles were littered around the trash can, although Ziva doubted a single one of them had actually been put _into _the container. And the folders? They were everywhere.

Ziva stood in the doorway leading into the hotel room, staring at the mess with appalled horror. She could hear the sound of the shower running, but did not bother announcing her presence. Instead, she picked her way through the disaster area that was Jardine's side of the room, gathered the two suitcases she had packed earlier this morning containing all of her belongings, and headed once more to the door. She pulled it open just as the technical expert of the CT team, Daniel Keating, was about to knock. He stood there for an extended second, his eyes wide and his hand up.

"Did something explode in here?" he asked as he took in the mess.

"Not yet," Ziva replied coolly. "May I help you, Daniel?" she asked, and Keating blinked.

"J.D. wants to talk to you," he said. She nodded and pushed by him, ignoring the curious look he gave her suitcases. To his credit, he did not offer to take one of them off her hands; he had tried that the first time the team made an out-of-state visit to which Ziva had simply shot him a foul look and ignored it. After pulling her door shut, he jogged up the hall to fall into step with her, though, as usual, he didn't actually make eye contact.

Special Agent Thompson was on the phone when they arrived at the room he shared with Keating, and he gave Ziva's bags a quick but unsurprised look before gesturing for both of them to enter. A short, squat man, he was near Gibbs' age, with gray streaks in his short-cropped hair and stress lines on his dark face. In her short time with the CT team, Ziva had quickly come to respect J.D. – for him, this job was all important and nothing – _nothing _– mattered more than preventing terrorist attacks made against American interests. The death of his son aboard the U.S.S. Cole in October of 2000 at the hands of Sudanese members of al-Qaeda had turned combating terrorism into his life's work, and the murder of his brother-in-law along with nearly three thousand other civilians the next year on September 11th only cemented his obsession. His marriage of twenty years had disintegrated in the wake of his sudden shift of priorities, but at no time did he show a hint of remorse over this fact. All that mattered to him was stopping further attacks.

It was a very Israeli sort of mindset.

"I take you've already heard about the bank job," Thompson said as he snapped his phone shut. Ziva blinked at him, frowned, and glanced once at Keating who was looking particularly uncomfortable.

"I have no idea what you are talking about," she replied. "Until ten minutes ago, I was in a conference room with Director Morrow from Homeland Security and three Middle East _experts _who were more interested in listening to themselves talk than to admit they have no idea what they talking _about_." She spat out the term 'experts' with abject contempt and J.D. shook his head in disgust.

"And these jackasses wonder why we keep getting hit," he muttered. Despite being African-American himself, he had never concealed his disdain toward the newly elected president's terrorism policies, a fact that had gotten him into trouble on several occasions. "Director Vance wanted me to inform you that Special Agent DiNozzo was not injured," Thompson said, his words causing an instant frisson of fear to spike through her. Ziva swallowed her first, instinctual response – to demand to know what had happened in as loud a voice as possible – and drew in a deep, steadying breath before pinning her current boss with a cool look. J.D. smiled at her poise. "He was involved in a bank shoot out," he said in response to the unspoken demand for answers, "but wasn't hit or injured."

"It's been all over the news," Keating said.

"And I have been sequestered in meetings all day," Ziva pointed out, her words a shade harsher than she intended them to be.

"Anyway," J.D. said quickly, "we're sending you back to D.C. on Gibbs' recommendation." He flashed a bright grin. "I think he'd like you to give DiNozzo a piece of your mind since you seem to be the only person Tony listens to." Ziva blinked at the ridiculous statement – he certainly did not listen to her when she asked him to stop leaving the toilet seat up – before finally shaking her head and smiling.

"Today was his first day back in the field," she admitted ruefully. "Gibbs should have known better than to let him out of his sight." Thompson chuckled and shook his head.

"The director also wanted me to pass on a message that Tel Aviv moved up your weekly debrief to Wednesday," he said. Ziva's straightened slightly, any hint of humor instantly vanishing.

"Did they say why?" she asked calmly. Inside, however, she was trembling with either anger or fear – she couldn't quite tell which. Mossad's new director, Ehud Ayalon, had made no attempts to hide his utter disinterest in maintaining the liaison position, no matter the benefits it provided for Israel, and Ziva was at least partially convinced that the man's opposition to it was personal. He had never liked her, regardless of her nearly flawless mission record, and had let it be known that he considered her very presence within the Institute as a sign of nepotism. When her father was forced to tender his resignation to the prime minister fifteen months ago, Ayalon had been there, waiting to take over. Thus far, he had not made too terrible of a mess, although his utter lack of finesse when it came to intelligence ops was not gaining him any allies.

And it simply _had _to sting that the man he had replaced was promptly elected to the Knesset on the Likud party platform and now chaired an oversight committee overseeing Mossad operations.

"I didn't ask," J.D. replied. He frowned. "They're not planning on calling you back, are they?"

"You know as much as I do," Ziva replied. "When do I leave?" she asked.

"Keating will drive you to the airport," Thompson said. "We'll follow tomorrow." Ziva nodded and picked up her bags. At the doorway, she paused.

"In the future," she announced, "I will _not _share a room with Agent Jardine. If necessary, I will pay for my own lodgings." J.D. smirked and his eyes sparkled, prompting Ziva to suspect he had paired her with Nikki just to see what would happen.

"So noted," he said.

The drive to the airport was silent apart from the NPR broadcast that Keating was listening to, which Ziva tuned out so she could think. Director Ayalon moving up the weekly briefing could not possibly be a good thing, no matter how she looked at it. Over the past three months, he had steadily increased the number of threats regarding his cancellation of the liaison position, but, at the same time, had taken every opportunity to block Ziva's attempts to end her association with Mossad. It was not as if she truly wanted to leave the Institute – the intelligence agency had been a part of her life for so long that she could scarcely imagine a time when she would not operate under its aegis – but the forced ouster of her father left her with the uneasy feeling of no longer being welcome. From the time Tali was taken from her to her assignment as Ari's control officer, Mossad had been home.

But now, she had Tony.

"You don't seem worried," Keating said abruptly. Ziva glanced once at him before returning her attention to the road ahead. "About Agent DiNozzo, I mean."

"J.D. said he was not injured," she pointed out. "Worrying about something I cannot affect is unproductive." Daniel grunted, as if he understood, but Ziva could see the furrowed brow she had come to associate with him not fully comprehending her meaning. If she were not distracted by concerns about her future with Mossad, she might have actually been amused (and flattered) at Keating's constant but remarkably unsubtle attempts to determine the exact nature of the relationship between her and Tony. Though he tried to hide it, Daniel had not hidden his attraction to her particularly well, despite her having done everything in her power to let him know that she was uninterested shy of having sex with Tony on Keating's desk.

Mmm … Tony on a desk at NCIS. She filed the fantasy away for future consideration.

"But they're flying you back…" Daniel trailed off, obviously unsure where to take the conversation.

"If Tony were injured," Ziva said calmly, "Gibbs would have called me." She smiled. "I _am _listed as Tony's next-of-kin, after all." That had been a shock to find out, especially when a few minutes of research online revealed that DiNozzo's father was still alive (and working on wife number seven.) She had been unsurprised to learn that Tony had given both her and Gibbs power-of-attorney in case of an accident – she had done the same shortly after being released from the hospital in the wake of the Russian Incident – but for Tony to have tossed aside any chance of future reconciliation? That had truly startled her.

"I didn't know you'd gotten married," Keating remarked after a long moment of silence. His eyes darted to the ring Ziva had forgotten to take off and she laughed.

"We're not," she replied as her phone began buzzing. She glanced at the caller ID and flipped it open. _"Shalom."_

"Hey." Tony sounded annoyed but otherwise healthy, although the slight strain in his voice caused Ziva to suspect his shoulders were hurting more than normal. "You heard?"

"I did," she replied. "I am on my way to the airport now," Ziva continued, "so expect me in a few hours."

"Fight night?" Tony asked excitedly. Ziva smiled.

"Fight night," she acknowledged. "Make sure your paperwork is done when I arrive. I am in no mood to wait."

"See you in a bit!" The line went dead and Ziva snapped her cell shut, a bright smile on her face. Nothing – not her worries about what Director Ayalon wanted, or Daniel's awkward smiles, or even the worse than normal traffic of New York City – could ruin her mood.

She was going home.

* * *

**A/N Explanation: **Final chapter? Say what? Look, I'm going to be honest. Season 7 has bored me, insulted my intelligence, or just flat out annoyed me **far **more than it has engaged my attention. While I will freely admit that it started out very strongly ("Truth and Consequences" and "Reunion" were both very good ... even if Ziva's physical and mental conditions were **WILDLY **unrealistic after being a female Jew & member of Mossad who has just spent several months in the hands of Islamic terrorists) and has occasional flashes of the old NCIS flare ("Flesh and Blood" was generally solid, and I was astounded that "Ignition" was actually quite fun despite the horrific advertisements), the show has spiraled back into mediocrity for me (akin to the boring, insulting or outright character assassinations that were season 6). I am apparently the sole Tony/Ziva fan in existence who thought "Jet Lag" was complete and utter drivel. Not only did Tony & Ziva systematically fail in their jobs as protection detail (how many times did they leave the asset unwatched while they went off to chase the various red herrings aboard the plane?) which is patently stupid given what happened the last time they were on protection detail together, it seemed to be nothing more than a calculated attempt by Shane Brennan to have his cake and eat it too. Now, rather than the tired, cliched "will-they-won't-they" nonsense between the two, he's going to replace it with "did-they-didn't-they" which is equally inane. And that's not even taking into account the utter stupidity of them taking a commercial flight back to the States with a valuable witness in the first place; the US Navy has MAC flights running all the time and if this woman was supposed to be so important, then taking such a flight would have actually made sense instead of this dross. Seriously, it's like they aren't even trying anymore in regards to the procedural aspect of the show. If you can't pick out the Bad Gal/Guy in the episode as soon as (s)he is introduced anymore (especially if the episode is being apologist toward Islamic fundamentalists as was the case with the ridiculous Christmas episode centered around a Christian honor killing, something that **DOES NOT **happen in the U.S.), then you're not actually paying attention. It's becoming more and more apparent to me that NCIS has moved on from me and the higher the ratings climb, the less I seem to like the actual episode.

With the (IMO) rapidly declining quality of the show (and I honestly don't understand why the rest of the viewers don't see how bad the show has become; even season 4, with the stupid Frog storyline and Jenny the Nutjob, was all around superior to the dross being produced under Shane Brennan), it is very hard for me to maintain interest in this story or the show in general. Every time I try to come back to it (say, after a very solid scene between Tony & Ziva on the show, like the long overdue warehouse scene in "Masquerade" which was patently superior to anything between the two in "Jet Lag" or "Jack Knife"), the show takes another step toward mediocrity by injecting rampant stupidity into the character interactions. (See: "Jack Knife" which was so badly written that even the Gibbs/Fornell interactions couldn't save it from stinking.) With that in mind, I am putting this story in official hiatus rather than continuing to try and force it when I so intensely dislike what the characters (and the show) have become. I wanted to put this chapter up because it at least ends on an upbeat, happy moment.

So I extend my most heartfelt apologies for leaving this story incomplete and humbly ask for your forgiveness.


End file.
